I struck my skin upon the barren thorn,
And life-red rose to surface warm.
I stared into it-bubble-deep,
As from the wound,
my skin did weep.
It traced a path slow to the floor,
Reminding me of days before,
And all the roads I dared to tread
Each drop,
a whisper of paths I've fled.
It showed the way I made it down,
From mountain smile to valley frown.
Each fall returned me to my start,
A bleeding map of shattered heart.
The droplets fell with quiet grace,
Coating grey cement's cold face.
At first, it seemed a wasteful spill,
Like years I'd lost against my will.
But then, with every crimson line,
I saw the tears I'd left behind
Each drop a ghost,
a dried-up cry,
That never found the ground to dry.
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Author:
MalcolmG (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: September 1st, 2025 02:49
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 5
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments2
This poem gracefully tells its story in great meter and rhyme. The metaphor is also very nice. It has to be a fave
Thank you kind soren , it's an old poem and one I felt like sharing here on mypoeticside - the poem was written sometime back and comes from one of my poetry books
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