I wake to soft cries that fill my mind.
Bright pools of blood soak within my nightmares,
I watch it drip from delicate fingertips.
Memories flood with crimson rainfalls.
A night not long ago haunts me in the morning light.
His lips were stained with my name,
Such poetry and yet, blood is my only ink.
His blood has me in the silhouettes of his destruction.
So, I play with his shadows,
Dancing with the slaughtered souls, faded into the echo of bloodless tears.
I write down their names, hoping to hear them sing to me one day.
Their whispers are etched in my scarlet letters.
His words are never forgotten as blood breaks the sound of a shattered heartbeat.
This is what haunts me.
About the Creator
A. Raphael
Poetry is my first love, and writing words onto paper is my therapy. Maybe my submissions will make you feel something, too.
If you find something in my words, then it is my pleasure.
A. Raph
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Where's the Glory?
In breaking news, rehabilitated Republican Senator Johnnie Johnson (Pronouns: HE, HIM, HIS) called a press conference from the Men’s room of the New Orleans Louis Armstrong International Airport, Concourse B, across from the Ignatius Reilly’s Lucky Dog stand. The Senator had just returned from a sexual reorientation rehabilitation program in Memphis, TN after being publically disgraced at a Buckee’s Truckstop restroom soliciting sex from an undercover cop three months ago. He is a founding member of the Reformed Christians for Christ, a conservative, pro-family and ex-gay advocacy group. In the spirit of being reborn, Senator Johnson invited reporters to marvel at his plans for a major remodeling of airport bathrooms.
By Cathy Schieffelin5 days ago in Humor
Comments (3)
Absolutely brilliant.
The repetition of blood along with “scarlet” and “crimson” painted some vivid red imagery! Nicely done!
some poems defy words - 💕👌❤️😽👍💖