Old Blood On New Hands
The morning, waking,
sun sitting high in October clouds,
breaking, new light in the sky,
shaping roses,
into
flat pastel blue,
spread out like a canvas:
You,
her,
passed away,
no future, I think,
She winks,
blinks,
forgets me,
dies,
in the darkest hour,
and I
walk the sidewalk
setting fire
on chalk-white death:
old blood on new hands.
Copyright © Ph.D Volo Von Wolfenstein | Year Posted 2012
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment