She walked a
slow march,
feet in blocks
of, heavy booted,
cinder. It was like
she was stepping
on the bottom
and drowning
in her own life,
no air bubbles,
coming to the surface,
for anyone
looking for
signs of life.
But know, one was.
The gray wet mass,
in the gutter,
the dog and I about
to walk by the
road ****
the injured rabbit
raised a head
front legs tried to
drag itself in the
pouring rain across
the very boulevard
that taught hard
the lesson, in the
early morning rain.
The spine was snapped.
The beauty and the ugly
was showing through,
pale white foot bones,
where fur once was.
I had a towel and held her
close, my dog was beside,
herself to get near, to the
gray wet mass, with eyes
wide with trust, not fear,
sorry friend rabbit,
where are Pooh,
Piglet,
Tigger,
Owl,
Eyore,
as I am no match for
Christopher Robin,
and your injuries are
too real, so rest a while,
I am right here, when
you are able or want
to go,
let me know,
or show,
me where
rabbits go to eat the grass
that is always green,
and always grows.
Her fingers unsteady
till she grips the
pencil crayon
lightly with a heavy
heart, does the colour
flow both ways, onto
the paper and into
her face, her smile,
in a way nobody
knows ,
in a way nobody
sees,
unless you look
beyond the mask.
The Picture?
It is a ribbon, and
vine with thorns a
rugged cross, four
yellow roses too.
There are few,
too few things
that speak of true
friendship than
yellow roses.
There are few
too few friends,
who remain.
Yellow roses
all around, petals
sprinkled on the
ground as she
details the green,
leaves, the brown
as rugged as the
rocky earth,
so she would never
be alone, there
is no friend,
none truer on
a wet stormy Sunday morning where three strays, all let me know, how to love.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
She walked a
slow march,
feet in blocks
of, heavy booted,
cinder. It was like
she was stepping
on the bottom
and drowning
in her own life,
no air bubbles,
coming to the surface,
for anyone
looking for
signs of life.
But know, one was.
The gray wet mass,
in the gutter,
the dog and I about
to walk by the
road ****
the injured rabbit
raised a head
front legs tried to
drag itself in the
pouring rain across
the very boulevard
that taught hard
the lesson, in the
early morning rain.
The spine was snapped.
The beauty and the ugly
was showing through,
pale white foot bones,
where fur once was.
I had a towel and held her
close, my dog was beside,
herself to get near, to the
gray wet mass, with eyes
wide with trust, not fear,
sorry friend rabbit,
where are Pooh,
Piglet,
Tigger,
Owl,
Eyore,
as I am no match for
Christopher Robin,
and your injuries are
too real, so rest a while,
I am right here, when
you are able or want
to go,
let me know,
or show,
me where
rabbits go to eat the grass
that is always green,
and always grows.
Her fingers unsteady
till she grips the
pencil crayon
lightly with a heavy
heart, does the colour
flow both ways, onto
the paper and into
her face, her smile,
in a way nobody
knows ,
in a way nobody
sees,
unless you look
beyond the mask.
The Picture?
It is a ribbon, and
vine with thorns a
rugged cross, four
yellow roses too.
There are few,
too few things
that speak of true
friendship than
yellow roses.
There are few
too few friends,
who remain.
Yellow roses
all around, petals
sprinkled on the
ground as she
details the green,
leaves, the brown
as rugged as the
rocky earth,
so she would never
be alone, there
is no friend,
none truer on
a wet stormy Sunday morning where three strays, all let me know, how to love.
RIP Bugs 22092013,
Three excerpts of frantic writes today, tried to tie them together.
The ending could be tricky to read. "the how to love" is part of the third excerpt and sums up all three
From the first one "But know, one was" could equal "But no one was."
Request permission to use this poem