The Pot
The pot was in thirteen pieces.
Caroline thought the number apt
as she looked at them
lying on the blood-soaked mat.
It was *her* blood,
caused by all the jagged pieces,
and the smallest piece
was the definitely the worst.
Its point was deathly due,
and its jagged outer rim
had gone into her skin
like sword with deadly blade.
11/13/2015
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Featured poem for the week commencing
12/13/2015.
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