AC (12-16-1981 DOD: everyday / )

A Slow Walk In The Evening

I have a wound that seeps-
it’s ugly and unkind; I beg it not to speak-
it haunts me still, so I lay quietly,
stitching my lips together, so that my tongue,
my greatest infliction, cannot destroy you.

I've sealed my worth in the grave,
forgotten to remember the years
that made me, fat on dreams-
now I recall nothing of worth or distinction-
only that one morning, I woke
fallen from heaven,
without wings to canopy my sulking head;
if only I would of put them to some use.

I bring roses to my tomb-
red ones, yellow ones, grey ones even-
the cathedral glass streaked tears,
the footsteps of some foreign god
disturbed the bells-

In a glass I collected rain
then cut my finger to add to it, the flavor of pain-
I watched as one tiny dropp of life, rippled
from center to circumference-
The ground drank poison from my hand:
flowers wilted and trees withered,
children aged and bonds were severed-
then I wept, for I was alone, except
for one colorless rose,
stem without petal lay at my feet-
but soon it died too, and for death,
I loved my tragedy.

User Rating: 5,0 / 5 ( 4 votes ) 6

Comments (6)

I liked this poem really. It has so many surrealistic images...deeply woven sentiments and feelings.....a rare piece I read and enjoyed in this site...10
A poem of immeasurable sadness and beauty penned by a poet who is indeed worthy of the name. Love, Sandra
I'm happy to return to your garden. Vision and power abide in this poem, this rendering like an impressionist painting and detailed like Escher, glimpses of angels and demons wrestling in daylight through darkness. This piece was like opening a flower scented tomb, musty and filled with living memory. Wonderful and terrifying as Uriah noted.
man, am I glad I ignored your advice not to read your poems...this is terrific.
A very compelling and deep poem. Your poetry is quite simply amazing, Amberlee. Regards, Seán
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