Saturday was
Roses, heavy with sensual vanity,
The same red as the flush across her breasts, or your blush when she praised you.
It was
A delicious apple sliced with a good silver knife,
And the lazy knowledge of the white china bowl containing its seven sisters.
Sunday is
Cave flowers, grey as an old dusty book,
Falling apart like brittle pages of bad poetry best forgotten.
It is
Bone fruit so dry it shrivels the tongue,
So un-nourishing that each bite brings emptiness, starvation.
It is skull candy, dream-rot, sick-music.
It is all that's left.
____________________
My God, this is . . . well, it just is. And, I adore it!
ReplyDeleteloved it.......
ReplyDeleteSo sad.
ReplyDeleteThank you all for commenting, ladies.
ReplyDeleteskull candy
ReplyDeletedream rot
fire blossom
drifting on the wind of your words...
There is probably something twisted about writing something born of pain and then going, oh, good line! But i did, I liked that troika near the end. I should probably be taken out and shot. Please.
ReplyDeleteI admire this. The emotion is (and does come off as) real, and the expression thereof is not raw (not a direct 'tell'). Impressive wordplay and imagery. Cheers. (I hope you are doing better now, with peace.)
ReplyDeleteI have a habit of saying that Sundays are "polluted," but you say it so much better!
ReplyDeletebone fruit so day it shrivels the tongue...skull candy
Right on.
oops, I meant to type so "dry" not day. ughh
ReplyDelete