The sun rises.
And I am icy, motionless in God's touch.
I stopped praying long ago, and instead closing
my eyes.
It is not cold when you die while still breathing.
When you die without your blood running cool.
I am a mummy, smothered by 100-pounds of
cloth.
Trudging the only way of moving.
My mother's flushed porcelain skin is lost on me.
My father's laxed chocolate goo for eyes is a
memory faded; a paper torturously folded
and unfolded.
I've haphazardly taped my pieces together,
The blood muddying the adhesive, an effort that
never went unnoticed.
I am dead, yet still, I am.
I am smiling, laughing, skipping and jogging.
Yet all in the same gust of biting wind,
I am a substanceless shell of curdling screams
and icicles for eyes.
Oh! But can you see me?
Can you feel me...Gone?
A whisper of a scent, lost in folds of inky
nothingness that has colored my fingers clear.
The sun sets.
And I am icy, motionless in God's touch.
-
Author:
jm (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 18th, 2016 17:55
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 44
- User favorite of this poem: pastaclouds.
Offline)
Comments3
This is amazing. I love your imagery and flowbof the piece.
~Vannessa
Thank you so much Vanessa it means a bunch to me
I absolutely love the way this poem sounds when read. Well done dude.
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