She had sandalwood feet,
and smelled just the same;
the bones in her rattled
like Scrooge's attic chains.
Life came pretty, left pretty,
and the moons on her forearms
left bite marks in calloused tendons.
How was it that
the old house gave so much heat
in the middle of winter?
"the snowflakes were perfect then,
but now it's all just pre-made, man-made,
slush" she twists hair
as if it had thorns:
cautiously,
and slow, withered from the root.
The sun wasn't enough,
the whimper wasn't heard,
and she stagnates under coal
where the only thing
that grows there
is methane and prisms.
Author notes
picture prompt.
A contest entry
- Prompt You for big Points Reserves are ok....20 lines min. by Cannonsfire.
5500 points, ended December 9, 2008, 21 entries
Silver trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
-
You...
are an amazing writer! This staggers me... I just keep re-reading it. It's like you carved it into a sheet of ice... it just melts into me as I go. It's more than poetry; it's a slice of life you've captured... such warmth continually contrasted by stark, barren elements of cold. Wow!
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Love the metaphors in this and the poignancy of the writing, a strong entry thank you.
C
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