The jukebox plays, poodle skirts spin
The dogs barked all night
A feeling of insecurity, of abandonment
Enveloped in a whirl of thick space
I breathed and blew until I could no more
And died
A withering smile as the autumn breeze froze my heart
Not wanting this night to end
I have come to the last leg of my journey
I wonder – is this it?
Rolling around my imagination
With abstract ideas of purity
Like virgin snows on the knoll
Untouched by the choking, bloody hands of some culture.
-
Author:
TrystanBehm (
Offline) - Published: February 12th, 2018 15:18
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 17
Offline)
Comments1
Great line:
Untouched by the choking, bloody hands of some culture.
It's so painful how we can't hold on to beautiful moments.
I'm wondering why you are harking back to the 50's?
Thanks for the comment Lorna! As for why the 50's...not sure, images of poodle skirts, and dancing and people having fun were in my head and that's where I started.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.