Relic

Fränz Müller

I remember the days of the dry river bed

gray clouds, thick with rain that never fell.

Fresh wounds, raw and starting to swell

with the promise of blood, the slow red rain

that will wash those dry stones

and unleash torrents of old pain.

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Comments +

Comments1

  • sorenbarrett

    This is a powerful poem and in its simplicity and metaphor it takes the heart of the reader. A fave



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