Soot black curls sway with
the passing of time, cradled in her arms.
Alabaster skin smooths and wrinkles
with each tick, tick, tick.
Walls press inward with each new age
then crumble with the wars of past and present
their broken stones screaming for an armistice soon.
Spent legacies lie here, stretched against
the maroon carpets of vulgarity, since painted white with lies.
Winged truths escape through gaping mouths frozen in death;
hazy eyes seeing beyond the grave
while their sockets moulder in the earth.
Greasey black fingers pull at our souls
begging their return to the abyss.
All while She sits placidly,
time cradled in her arms:
tick, tick, tick...
Author notes
prompt #1 picture on contest page.
Is the use of the Onomatopoeia, "tick" complementory to the poem or does its use take away? Why?
Comments
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Nice imagery. I like the poem
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