"mink" poems
(thanx all for the great suggestions)
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women who wink
drive men to drink
together, glasses clink
tattoos follow in ink
and that ain’t the only thing
~
the tiller tied & forgot,
the slip knot jinxed
the sailboat nearly sinks
~
he cries aloud “you minx!”
I’m all done in,
you’ve got me sminked,^
you winking whilst me sailing on the oceans brink
~
she smirked and laughed that slinky mink,
“clearly you are confused - I’m a lynx,
count to cinq, don’t overthink,
join me overboard into the ****
I’ll finish you off in the the kitchen sink
where drowning possibilities are next to nothink
promise, we’ll be quite in sync”
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 11:50 AM UTC
Cars, are's, bars, git-are's, oov-are's, dars and mars
With these I can construct a rooping Flargnar. Cigars.
And without these I am too **** in the far. Pooping in the car.
Now can I find the Kragar? Or have a lost it in Nar?
Wigga foug under the dug like a big bug in the rain, its all the same.
What a doog? Got a Spoog? Butter up your hands and put them in the dands.
If ever should have shooken my loog, then up-chuck all the poog! What a gwoog! Me!
But who else could it have been! In the long run no one but we.
We cannot it be, it was the glove who fell in love with that dove!
Show me the rub! For we need it to subsub.
Hrug, Hrug, hrug magug! shrug off the flug, please doug do a love for the bitter twub!
In the end it doesn't matter, I had to fub to wub it dub!
Aug 16, 2011
Aug 16, 2011 at 11:52 PM UTC
Draped in fresh-knitted pearls
we traipsed
into saccharine peach orchard
The summer heat loped about our dew-kissed ******
****** - appropriated from dawn spent on neatly shorn plantation grass
Ambling into the knotted palatial arbor
we sat each in our own tree crux
behinds nestled upon ashen bark
Juice dripping in our grip
down our cast nets of flesh
sprawled about the branches
inset with gravity-defying liquescent orbs
dusted in translucent mink
painted with smears of
citrine, coral, amber, and ichorous
clinging to brass stem
The rondures secede to mandible
taut between palms pull and polished ivories
- torn-
Fluent in dulcet discourse
We cloak ourselves in provocative juice tatting
Until such time that our congealing garments
were found mapping the bark's topography
A saccharine map to the breath of soil
Bloodstone ants found our map
and had begun traversing - portent
to seize our treasure
We surrendered our jewelled cages
and took flight
to the sun-drunken lake to bathe
and swim
until heavy lids kissed moistly
heavily supped on the draught
sleep - beckoned transience
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:48 PM UTC
all day long, their banging disturbed me at my work
startling me from my reverie, lost deep in the world
of I Wish I Had A Heart Like Yours, Walt Whitman
the birds, returned early from wherever it is they hide
during the long winter, have come to fling themselves
against the over-sized picture window in my living room,
songbird pitch themselves into my poet's dull daytime
so that i am moved to rise from my desk, to look out,
to seek a bird flying away, or peer down to search for the
tiny body maybe roosting among the stalks of the overgrown
hydrangea, which captured autumn’s maple leaves, worn
like a Chicago matron's mink to keep the winter chill at bay
and, as the spring surrenders to the warmer days, i mow the
brightly greened grass, innocently cutting row after row,
to turn finally to the narrow strip nearest the picture window,
a mixture of grass, dried leaves and tiny twigs, all mulched
by the power mower, where i discover these dessicated bodies
exhumed from shallow graves at the base of the newly leafed
hydrangea, their stiff, dry feathers bristly, colored a washed
out grey, tiny feet tightly balled, with all the soft parts missing
and the beaks a startling white, as though bleached, bright against
the dullness of the little corpses which seem to have sunk into
the mosses of the yard, so that they lay preserved below the blade
for the first late-spring chore -- mowing the bird bone garden
i sleep with the bedroom window ajar despite the overnight chill
and dream of the memory of birds, their shapes, their white beaks
and, still, the bird songs wake me in the cool green spring morning
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 8:56 AM UTC
Living in this yellow box filled with aging trinkets
A lonely guy trying to get by just hasn't sealed the link yet
Bout a cup of milk left in the fridge and God forbid I drink it
A shaggy dog; that ***** hog, why can't they smell the stink yet?
The junk comes barreling through the door so fast that you can blink it
There's no more room for gloom and doom, but let's fit one more inkjet
They just got rid of dinnerware, a silver and a pink set
So now to hoard an ancient sword, a blender and a mink set
Five garbage bags of someone's clothes, the sixth one's in the sink, wet
With lots of cans and pots and pans, we'll reach the jagged brink yet
They're trying to let go, said there ain't no space to think yet
They're workin hard to raise the bar, ain't worked out all the kinks yet
Pressed for time and low on space
****** I need to get out of this place...
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
Let's talk about the things we normally wouldnt
And let's act upon those thoughts that we probably shouldn't
If I had it my way..well actually I couldn't
I'd rather not
I'm afraid things might not work
And the thought of possibly ruining another good thing
I guess it might be worth it
But are the signs there or do I just misinterpret
maybe a silver toungued devil but never a serpent
feel free to run around the grass
it's been well kept
Remember that feeling because when you get back to your side it might feel dead
just want to show you the finer things nothing big
nothing fancy
no designer mink
just a simple talk
A laugh
Not even a drink
Drunk words speak sober thoughts
might spill things well that I rather not.
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 9:28 AM UTC
Your Clouds, judged be it pickled or disdain
Have mostly trained your canaries to think
Whether to ruffle more Feathers; Then feign
Those Truest Notes dipped; And begroom your Mink
For who could solve what your Tampered Mind spies
Then translates such Harvest for a Desert
To Good Sense cheer; From Truth becomes a Lie
With Random Calls ring your Body to advert
And whilst you do, any Cause to forget
Those Taped Pioneers who endured your Phase
Pray for your Interview; And chance to beget
Which Startled Sweets was the Sweetest at base.
Yet still Occupied to that Video owned
Belittle what Possum's Cry now reknowned.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:38 AM UTC
In your past, this past
they weren't valued
no one said they were members of the family
what walks on four legs and is furry and cute is only
to last as long as nature intended and then to be disposed of
Veal calves in crates, taken from mothers on the day of their birth
to make more milk for humans, horse slaughter for glue
and foi gras, ducks and geese locked in a vice grip of their cages
metal tubes rammed down their throats and force fed until a liver disease
develops, painful, but given no respite
and served as a delicacy and
fur coats from animals skinned alive right here in America
still when mink farms are outlawed in the Netherlands and
two million dogs and cats skinned in China every year not to mention
other horrors and no one cared or looked their way because they are
only animals, and voiceless and helpless and no one cared to give them
a voice or advocacy
"that's why they're there, for our use, people still say" who profit from an industry
of suffering
And today, there are people who try to give them a voice and there are veterinarians who will try to help you with your member of the family, as he suffers, in his old age
a bag of fluids hangs from my exercise bike, and intermixed with my medications
is the painkiller and anti-nausea pills for my dear old friend
whose pancreas is failing
and father, this is foreign to you
you pretend it is a crime
silence is the only thing connecting us now
I hope you enjoyed your last barrage of unkind words
I think you did. The saddest thing I've learned about people like you
is
you feel better after such an attack, to see me reeling, bleeding on the ground
and you feel better, calmer and purged.
A kind of misbegotten peace settles over you
an exploitive peace from another's tears and pain
And yes, father, there were no agencies to give a voice to children
when you were young
no CPS, to aid my nine year old ***** friend
as a code of silence enveloped her attacker
to protect him, the one who destroyed her
But today there is a small brigade of a modern kind of love
to give a voice, protection, soothing to the ones who can
only suffer at our hands and not protect themselves from
our wrath and exploitation
and it is a better world for that, father
for my furry pancreatic friend and for any other
nine year old **** victims here
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 12:38 PM UTC
The battle is upon us
We can finally put ourselves to the test
Memories of the past still haunt us
We fight for freedom so that our minds can rest
Easy knowing that we took a stand
Against twisted beasts of human form
I hold my blade in a trembling hand
I'm ready to weather this mighty storm
*I thought i was a man ready to protect
but now i can't even stand *****
watching my team mates feet and necks
be crushed by these mountains of dreck.
I have't even started combat but i am seeing the light
now here one comes what is the point of putting up a fight?*
Most of us won't see tomorrow
Why is Armin so frightened?
Is he just going to stand there
And get eaten by a titan?
I need to protect him
He's one of the last things I've got
And I can't let a monster dissect him
My targets locked
I'm going in for the nape
This wretched creature
Will never escape
*Without being able to solve this place's puzzle
I will my life will end by being guzzled
By a ******* belligerent beast
Only looking for its next feast
How could we have a king when these monstrosities rule this domain
Our society might all as well burst like there's a flame over propane
It is a fitting end for this monarch's curious servent
being killed by the real king for being too observant
Hey I am a king too I guess... of cowards, my friend's blood is my moat
And their pieces of the mangled bodies will be my mink coat
Now I am slipping down this demons throat, it doesn't matter who I am
***** this... Wait what is this grabbing my hand?*
I won't let him go
What lies beyond these walls?
We've always wanted to know.
How could he surrender to fear?
The look in his eyes
We can't die here.
I'll trade my life to keep his going
As I slip into the belly of the beast
My sense of urgency is growing
All I see are the bodies of comrades who have tasted defeat
The light is fading
Why is existence so bleak?
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 10:23 AM UTC
Drifting off in mid-day
She is there in my parent's house
Where she should not be
She's never met them
been inside their home
...and besides
She's dead...
Don't know where I drop my brains off
or my heart
when sleeping
I so clearly know this
but I dismiss it
for the moment--
go along with joy
to have her with me once again
She looks so well!
Her pale skin flushed
below her ragged, reddish hair
Wearing peacock blue sateen
as always
dressed to ****
to go somewhere
anywhere
away
from loneliness
from cancer
...and she had included me
on her glorious outing
without title
without honor
I had been her teacher-friend
like an elder wedding guest
she had grown
beyond ...
She helps me dump my canvas bag of poems
on my parent's bed
Where I conceived them
or they conceived me
“What about this one?
Or this is a good one too!
I know you can do this!
You read so well!”
she says
I'm thinking, “This is not like Jenn,
so reversed
for her to give a thought...
and besides, it is not even my event!"
Now she's in my mother's place
in her 1950's closet
pushing hangers across the rail
She would find it--
something
I could wear
I am so transported by the smell
of memories
that I don't care
mothballs, lavender, perfume
I get distracted deep within
almost losing track in the euphoria
to have found my friend again
I lose a moment in the soft fur of mom's mink
clipped together mouth to tail
to form the stole
an ouroboros
With its beady eyes
on me
like death
would drape across my shoulders
given half a chance
When from its mouth of glamorous lies....
Jenn shoves me through life's opened door
She has found that dress!
I wore...
the one with hope, and future's
purple flowers
dropped waist and scalloped neck
Yes, It would do, “Yes!"
But now,
she makes excuse to leave
...of meeting Joe
...of going on ahead...
I know
she must
as this is all some clabbered past
a gift of dreams
Still, I want to hug her
just one last....
but she feels empty...
In embrace
she turns to ash
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC
Mary, plain name. Mary, mother of God
Mary, Queen of the Strip Mall
Mary, daughter of a King and a *****
Divinity in her blood, conqueror of lands,
Monarch of her body, kingdom of junkies.
Nails inlaid with pearls, mink lashes and onyx eyes
Indigo polyester wraps her 36, 30, 41,
saltwater taffy legs, **** and ***
Mary wasn’t a tall boy, Mary is a funnel cloud queen
Obsidian brazilian in velcro, soda can curls.
Mary has no titles, Mary is a ******* Mary is an exile.
Queen of cream stucco and neon and parking lots.
Mary has disciples, all named Judas.
She has Roy Cohn, the judge’s son, and Louis XIV on their knees in prayer.
She has **** Cheney, Little Richard, and Freud their knees in the bathroom behind the Tesco.
Mary doesn’t confess, doesn’t beg, doesn’t buy.
Mary the conqueror, Alexander reincarnate, she survives.
Body bathed in ultraviolet, cocoa butter, vaseline, and newport menthols.
Mary talks to God in the mirrors at the salvation army.
Mary is scared of dying, she knows she is no ones martyr.
Mary never kneels, left the Bible in the motel nightstand.
A graceful end, a unceremonious departure.
Trade rose petals for needles and styrofoam slurpee cups.
Mary’s mistresses, lovers, and wives, gave her a few lead rounds,
Left her in the strip mall mausoleum.
Mary, queen of the carnal, saint of suburban perversions.
Mary never asked God for forgiveness or a fix.
Jan 28, 2019
Jan 28, 2019 at 3:47 PM UTC
Hot/Cold, Part 2
Hot endings, cold starts.
Hot feelings, cold marks.
Hot temper with a cold reaction.
Hot double barrel with cold pump action.
Hot church with a cold congregation.
Hot merch with cold affiliations.
Hot meat, cold wine.
Hot dollar, cold dime.
Hot queens with their cold mink.
Hot kings with their cold links.
Hot art with cold reception.
Hot mirror and a cold reflection.
Hot woman with a cold reputation.
Hot main chick with a cold side on placement.
Hot funk and cold R&B.;
Hot world but the colds all I see.
Hot information, cold intelligence.
Hot faults, then cold recompense.
Hot forgiveness, cold mistakes.
Regardless of what the world intakes.
Hot ignorance and cold oblivion,
are bliss to those who favour dominion.
Hot pathogens and cold diseases.
Hot gold with the cold diamond pieces.
Hot gat within a cold Gucci belt.
Hot knife inside the skin it starts to melt.
Hot love for God and the cold religion.
Hot pain after a cold circumcision.
Hot skin, cold whip.
Hot hands, cold grip.
Hot city, cold ghetto.
Hot calls, but no memo.
Hot rapper with no demo.
Hot baller with no c-notes.
Hot thoughts, cold emotions.
Hot theories and cold notions.
Hot models with their cold body motions.
Hot love before the warm heart ceases.
Hot hatred 'fore the cold heart seizes.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
in the mink pith of our dismal mints and our Charlatan hearse fights
in the twice dark vice of our daffodils
you linger effervescent in the marmalade plans
of mice and gin.
you march men into your womb like pixie dust and Ebola.
there, in the devious whiskers of your manticore
i have found you naked and bereft of kin.
an oodle of gimp where the soul
had been, and the gas lights off the marsh
unclean.
the vivid hork of your dead albatross, pondering the hink of your discontinued love.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 8:47 PM UTC
Fury of a Tiger
Grace of a Phoenix
Care of a Polar Bear
And Sly as a Mink
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 10:12 PM UTC
Garden Parkway YMCA
Dallas, Texas
22 November 1963
Darling Sophie,
Could it be only two months since I let your fingers slip from my hand as that train departed Voronezh station? I fear that this trip was a great mistake. . . .
The boat sailed from Sevastopol as scheduled. Just two days and we were through the Bosporus/Dardanelles and into the incredibly blue Aegean and the Mediterranean. On September 27 we passed Gibraltar and started the long haul across the Atlantic. The work was not demanding though the ship was quite ***** and not really very pleasant.
We docked at Houston in the state of Texas on October 9. Defecting was surprisingly easy. There was supposed to be work in Dallas so I walked/hitch-hiked here last month. But I have not been able to find any work.
The people here, though friendly, are coarse and brash. The stores overflow with televisions, record players, mink coats, but there are many very poor people here too...
The great American leader, Kennedy, was shot and killed today, driving in his open-topped car along the streets of this very city.
My money is gone; my strength, exhausted. How blithely I left you and Russia behind! I feel my lips brushing the tiny hairs on the back of your neck, your ******* swelling. . . . Sophie! May you know great happiness and love! I only ask that in the spring when you visit Krymskaya Pond, that you remember how we knelt there, how I whispered in your ear there, when the air is filled with the scent of its cherry trees that you remember what we felt there. . . .
Yours, always, Nickolay
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 2:02 PM UTC
He gave me a ring
With its facets glazed and cracked
Insisting it was once his great-grandmother's
She who
In rot-edged vintage photos
Wore a mink stole and flapper beads.
_________________________________________
She pulls at seams
Takes up and brings down hems,
The stole pushed to the back
Of a web festooned attic
In a steamer trunk slapped with decals:
Moscow
Austria
Monte Carlo
Rio de Janeiro.
On cold days she wears it again
Dancing to old melodies on rough boards
And when she hears the front door slam
It's made to disappear in haste,
Her engagement ring clacking
Against the trunks flip locks.
That night as she makes biscuits
For her breadwinner she sees
The crack, the chip
Through a glaze of milked flour.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 3:51 PM UTC
She's got pretty feets
Filipina poor girl with very tastey feets
Dark brown from Sun beach sands
Ban do solie for the San Tropez tan
Creamy coconut oil lotion to rub on her tastey treats
Tropical girl now she's in heat
Her juices are flowing down her brown tan legs
Her thighs are glowing in the dark night moon age
Then I awake she was only a dream
Now I realize I am alone old man wanting
My young day
Time did me in stole my every thing
Dreaming of girls as they point and laugh at me
I once was young now I'm old crash test dummy
Mis understood just get drunk and pass out
I wish I had girl to slap me about
Mmnm I love tropical girl
**** **** and bikini **** butter cup
Lovely charms to behold
Lick her feet slurp on her toes
Female girls with bikini pose
Why is it she must where clothes?
Animals no wear clothes cause they have fur ?
Naked girl in High heels has a mink stole
Mmmm ravishing yummy
I'm old now and gone crazy....
I know where to get ***
Where the creepy freak can't go
The Philippines is the place no dopes allowed
I hate drugs thugs thieves ruin our fun in the sun
He go to jail while I juice up his girl
Sorry Charlie
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 9:00 AM UTC
Am a stain...
As it a man...
A skinny fiddler mouth.
Drifted as unholy mink.
A hounded firmly stinks.
Find me in the dark.
Am a stain...
As it a man...
Morgue violets you.
Virtuous eye, gloom
Your volute egoism.
Give your soul to me.
For i am the darkest night of yours.
Fainthearted fought risky moors.
Am a stain...
As it a man...
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 6:55 AM UTC
Elegant,wrapped up in stolen garb,
Naked mink and ermine,
Cower coldly in the gutter,
Undressed.
The rich ***** bedecked with jewels and pearls.
Stolen from the littlest girls.
Bracelet,a creation from reptilian teeth,
Neath her coat,
A chill, heart resides,
The tiger in front of the fire,
Once he was real and she was a liar.
She declared a love of animals,
The ones whose heads hung on the walls.
Nouveau riche?
Nope, a super *****
She heard the scratches at the door,
Alas alack, she was no more.
Haw haw.
(c) Livvi
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 7:29 AM UTC
Hold my hand dear Benjamin
don't let Professor Edwards
catch me in a dreamscape
challenging me off guard
as we sit in math class
hands clasped together
for when you knowingly
squeeze my hand tighter
scribbling with your right hand
the answer which is required
to be erased so as not caught out
but today as I look out
onto drifting clouded skies
I see the changes and I lose
myself in shapes and smoke
forging out homes, characters
stories into my past, present
and what could be in the future
nothing is taken from me, distracted
in an instant I'm Vivian Ward
racing around Hollywood
with my best friend Kit De Luca
who eats cold pizza for breakfast
and crawls the streets with me
hop scotching across the
Hollywood Walk of Fame,
five star terrazzo and brass stars, names of Hollywood greats
blonde, brunette elegance
Manolo's, mink coats,
jewelled necklines of emerald stones
we'd both dreamt as kids
Los Angeles; the City of Angels
we are the winged, we are the free
inhabiting the land of opportunity
the ladies of the night, grappling onto souls of kids, shared flat
with bunk beds and a closet filled
with 80's short tight spandex
leg warmers, faux gold earrings
bright coloured lingerie, leather bomber jackets, tutus...
oh and those perms and scrunchies
fake eye lashes, an 80's kid high as hell
being courted by an older wealthier man
living fast, dying young, a fugitive
of the land
broken
The silence I succumbed to
bruised by a cacophony of bells ringing
"never change Lou lou!"
he winked and smiled
packing his rucksack
leaving for the day.
© Sia Jane
“She was the amoureuse of all the novels, the heroine of all the plays, the vague “she” of all the poetry books.”
Gustave Flaubert, “Madame Bovary”
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 12:00 PM UTC
Put down the pizza
Put down your phone
You're now in Pisa
You're now in Rome
Blink once, blink twice
Use your imagination
Secret agent in disguise
In Grand Central Station
You don't need to drink
To pretend you're free
Take your coat of mink
And ruminate with Dali
Put down your pen
Put down your fears
You are a hundred unique women
Separated only by years
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 6:11 PM UTC
There once was a young boy of thirteen years,
who loved a girl with blue eyes shining bright;
he was her world and she was his light;
one was complete when the other was near.
With strawberry milkshake faces and linked lollipop hands,
they walked the Pacific beach, overcome with smitten smiles,
enscribing their names in the rusty, copper sand
"A promise," they said, as the ocean kissed the land
"I'll be with you regardless of the miles"
and with this, he gifted her the world, it was sealed,
tragedy approaches slowly, but can't penetrate love's shield.
When the teacher's back was turned, he would pass her notes,
simple poems composed by his heart;
one wrote;
"Roses are red, violets bloom high,
the world won't suffice, let me give you the sky"
At home, her beautiful blue eyes cried.
Under the stars they sat, tender soul mates, two of a few,
he didn't understand, a lost child, confused and bare,
her wig fell into her lap, locks of beautiful blonde hair,
looking into her blue eyes he breathed, "I love you"
and with that sacred declaration, the sky belonged to her
with devotion as sure as the sunrise, warmer than mink fur
Later that month, on one incandescent night,
they sat on the moonlit shores, as the western wind sighed
her head on his shoulder, smiling, closing her big blue eyes,
silhouettes upon the sands, holding each other tight
As she slept, as the nightingales fly,
she dreamed of him, her entire world and sky,
never waking up, though a smile graced her lips
with his poem held snug in her delicate grip
"Roses are red, violets bloom high..."
Now a married man of sixty-four, he dreams by and by,
of the two walking the Pacific beach, overcome with smitten smiles,
her childish laugh resounds like heavenly songs in the sky,
for he was her world and she was his light;
in the sun, her beautiful blue eyes shining bright,
in the stars, her beautiful blue eyes shining bright
Jan 27, 2010
Jan 27, 2010 at 2:25 PM UTC
In a fleeting panic
my body aching
my head in manic
I was fitted for depression
by my fashion shrink
cosmic blue straightjacket
boots of shocking pink
Day-Glo eyelashes
and a faux stole of mink
I walked the streets of Soho
and climbed the Factory walls
a girl betwixt
a boy between
everybody’s darling
till morning came to town
in my corset of denial
I took cover in the rain
and sang naughty little ditties
seeping from the recesses of my brain
I tripped my way to Bellevue
where a thousand plastic junkies
awaited my return
I fell into their fancy
and we frolicked amidst our lies
and hopped aboard an east bound train
to a velvet paradise
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 12:49 PM UTC
She was always the other woman, flowers in her hair, cascading down her back
freckles covering, porcelain skin, cupids bow, painted dark red, hair strawberry blonde
vintage fashion of Henry a la Pensée, envelope chemise, peignoir, blue iris mink fur
shoulders forward, rain splintering, bare legs, André Perugia shoe, one lost amidst the cobbles
favourite novel in arm, to read, as she contemplates her choice, Gertrude Stein; Fernhurst
oh how can one author write ones heart so articulately she thought so pensively, the other women
spring blossom blown away as a puff of pink smoke, a thief in the night, racing past the library
the winding stair case, the oh so fabulous and opulent parties, laughter and cocktails
the tower in sight, a beating of an empty heart, lovers lost, a baby once nurtured
taken, those back street black market abortion clinics, she'd never recovered
she shivered, the time was now, black streaks of mascara, tragedy, loss, pain
the tower was in reach, she gazed upwards, it was near to midnight,
perfect, she thought, the exact time she lost her sister off this same tower,
both plunging to their deaths, love broken, hearts kidnapped nowhere in sight
the game was about to begin, her happiness quashed, every hour, the motions run
dreaming of the afterlife, sedated by drink, she waited it out, effortlessly thinking,
what now,
with a kick of the last shoe, a stumble to the edge, she fell, like a graced angel in flight
devoured by the night.
© Sia Jane
--
“I too am convinced that life is dark, and at the same time I love life.”
Simone de Beauvoir
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC