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| Open Poetry #41 |
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Untitled |
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Master Senior Member
since 1999-08-18
Posts 1867Boston, MA 
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How soon will they forget what just took place? Will Lily see me here? Will this bring change? I’ve squeezed out, like the last of toothpaste, What’s left of spirit from an emptied ribcage. Syllable after syllable, dried and rusty yellow, Fell onto the page, broken into little crumbs, While the pen swooshed, like a bow across a cello, And the head banged, like a set of drums. The lamp burned feverish above the forehead, Pouring lava on top of this evening’s gloom And verses, barely formed in this hot torment, Already echoed somewhere in the living room… “She loves me? Not?” – like a broken record, Like Russian roulette, with a chamber loaded, And arms twisted in hopelessness of a beggar, And broken fingers. And the shot exploded. Check out my poetry here: |
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| © Copyright 2007 Andrey Kneller - All Rights Reserved | |||
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