shrapnel
like
when that irresistibly
delicate
glass ornament
laden with memories
of the bygone
fell off its precarious
perch
unexpectedly
& with a sudden pop
cracked
hopelessly
shattering
a million
little mirrors
were born that night
scattering
years hence
some still jab soles
& toes
making bare skin
bleed
like dark metallic shadow
of dramatic makeup.
Kilgore
-
Frank sat in the back of the room talking to someone named Kilgore.
Kilgore, he said, you don’t say much. Come sit and I’ll buy you one,
whatever you want....
9 hours ago
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5 comments:
For some reason, 'metallic shadow' really pleases me.
Thanks for the poem, Noxalio.
PG
Wonderful, Nox, those million little mirrors that still jab, I can almost feel them.
wonderful... words weaved together so well.
Shrapnel and shards have long lives. Love the image of a million mirrors being born.
thank you Peter, Elisabeth, lines n shades and Annie ...
yeah, careful where you step, no?
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