You run your fingers over the black thread in your lips,
the rose petals sewn together in defense of the heart
resting, beating, on the swell of your ravaged tongue.
Deftly, you guide away the splayed tips of my scissors
as I try to redeem what you so carefully placed away,
bittersweet smile lingering to remark on my attempts.
I turn my painted face from such chilly wind in gesture;
perhaps to state silent that angels are dying in my chest.
Perhaps to merely look away from my own impatience,
mirrored in irises that see through my defaced skin.
Author notes
A contest entry
- The Yearn of a Turn by whispernthedark.
685 points, ended July 26, 2008, 14 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Be honest. :)
Comments
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my impression?
well -wanting something from someone? That they can't give or don't know how. Or you thinking there more then what they are. Good though I like it.
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perhaps to state silent that angels are dying in my chest.
That is an amazing line, and this is a wonderful write. Thank you so much for entering the contest, good luck.
♥
whisper
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