his whispers are an echo,
stillborn on the edges of january snowflakes—
cradle songs for death's ballet.
all that's left of him would fit in an acorn shell
and i would wear it like the wind;
instead i have a muted silver pendant,
a bittersweet beauty
tarnished like rusty icicles.
he is tangible as smoke.
but that january night,
as mist and smoke crept through skeleton willows,
he flickered into existence
like a fragment of ash:
a glimmer of gossamer on ribbons of grass,
lantern-bright eyes, alive—
transparent, unresponsive,
a ghost in the fog.
Author notes
Inspiration:
http://helleye.deviantart.com/art/Ghost-In-The-Fog-45914876
&
Mad World-- Gary Jules
rip it
Comments
-
O.o
I really love your vocabulary in this; it heighted the poem to a level I wasn't expecting and drew me in
I like your second line best
♥
Thank You for Your Entry & Best of Luck
Stay safe
~Manda
-
"tarnished like rusty icicles."
I love the word tarnished!!!
You set such a perfect tone throughout the piece. I found myself half-holding in the breaths because your diction really did make me feel as if everything around me were fragmented, fragile, clouded, spirit-like... Gah, I love that!
This is brilliant.
Kelsey-Jo
Adding your comment:
