Ring Finger
How deep is this mark,
this ridge of pale skin?
When, when will the sun
do its cursed work?
Shall it never cease
branding me as one
of two, when one,
I am, now at peace?
Will it eat at my heart
from waking till dreaming,
through each day's end,
from each one's start?
Will it forever cling,
like Duncan's blood
to this rough skin,
afore a madness making?
Shall I, a somnambulist rise
like the dread Lady did
in her anguish, this
pink mark to soliloquize?
Tan, tan damn skin,
tan, I say....
Copyright © David Brown | Year Posted 2014
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