Email Poem

Your IP Address: 3.16.44.178
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem

shadowed ...

the China hills
like little pills set on end
and stairs that wend to the moon
so far from June, he thought
wrought now with frustration
on the ramp of the station
her - taking the express
in his favorite dress … Mr Mess, behind
(he was trying to be kind)
yes ...
too many y's, too many why's
too many wise old Manchurian sighs
he always thought with his eyes
so, was easy to fool
school time, Miss Farmer
given an arm or a leg, (or dimpled back)
on tip-toe to show her better side
(what a ride) ...
she was a jaded jester
just her breath on the window
frozen ...
chosen to speak for her, cold
(that chin - so sweet!)
squeak, squeak, squeak
tip-of-finger in the feral frost
his peril cost him naught but time
but there, in rhyme
chilled between them on glass
(he'd seen them at last)
now melting, but fast in his matter, gray
mad as a hatter
they and the deed, defended
ended ...
when did he lose her?
she answered with a terse curse
her lips pursed to first refresh the frost
so the words ...
so the words would ...
so the words would be CLEAR
so he'd finally hear her soul speak -
"I! DON'T! LOVE! YOU!"
written in ice crystals
as nice as a pistol's business end
(and to send the bullet home ... )
"But I'll always ... be your ... friend!"
BAM!
he crumpled
onto his knees ...
onto the icy platform, alone
the train tenderly pulling away ...
her message now freezing
the cold quickly seizing his heart, abiding
frosty pane hiding the two of them
him ... and them ...
how fitting, thought he
that the phrase she'd chosen
(to rub his nose in)
now lingered, frozen ... frozen ...
frozen ...
like the day ...
(darkening, quiet)
like the rail, gunmetal gray
(screeching, choking, smoking)
like the winter-tide song of a sparrow
spearing him bone-to-marrow ...
(lone, the morrow)
like his chill being ... fleet, fleeing
like the swollen breast of March
like the empty bed, set loose, his head
like the blade should find her throat
(hidden deep, his coat)
like dreams, lost
like love's cost ...

like hell.







Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden, March 6, 2021
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required