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
- Users 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.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.