A Tripping Balance
Black and grey—
half-dead, half-forgotten,
etched in silence, waiting.
Thou to draw, thou to withdraw,
tracing echoes, tracing the traces,
cursed yet, blessed.
Now, I sit, tracing
the scars of the ruby,
fingers brushing against old omens
in the reflection’s cold embrace.
(I know the echoes all too well—
for I am the one who breathes life
into the melancholies in my head.)
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
