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Pieta
| Open Poetry #33 |
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Pieta |
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IndigoEve Member
since 2003-01-10
Posts 279Etched in the illusion of time 
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With his eyes slanted, he asked me what the words felt like, in my blood. I could not answer him, for fear of losing little bits [broken pencil lead] to impedimenta. He watched me dying, the years too unkind, would not touch the pillow and remember. He said, tomorrow, you'll breathe. I believed him, while snaking my fingers around a half chewed eraser, pink as ghosts of dissolution. When it passed into yesterday, he knew, [better than our scornful God] how to fail me again. But this time, I waited for compassion, mercy. And it came. He brushed death from me with his lips - the perfect artist's cliché. Vandalized, he held my body, and bargained my life with black rain. I tripped, and played purgatory like a cello. Too tight for heaven, too heavy and splintering for hell. He smiled, dark yet knowingly and I let Lucifer take me by the hand, as we danced to his liking. If I were to touch you, would you bleed a velvet river, running miracles through the sodden ground? --Moi |
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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354Listening to every heart |
Gads ... this lingers. |
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