About Me

My photo
The Madman, "Yes, three days, three centuries, three aeons. Strange they would always weigh and measure. It is always a sundial and a pair of scales."

Tuesday, August 4, 2009


A white umbrella in one hand to avoid the piercing raindrops,
She bent down gracefully to pick a handful of moss
From atop his pregnant grave;
The smell in the air was moist decay;
The numerous dead around her screamed for relief from the cold;
Only he lay with his face down, sullen,
Angry at having to lie so away from home
Where her perfume never reached to arouse him;
She let the moss drop down slowly;
Lost in it was a single warm tear, his last hope;
She turned and walked away leaving his stone fighting the rain.
The deadly bullets of water could never pierce her pride;
She was proud of him;
So she let her dark hair drench and soon tears heated up her eyes.
As soon as she had turned he had looked up
And grabbed the tear in the moss;
His thirst had to wait every week
Till she soaked him in this pearly drop of love;
His hollow eyes traced her till she went out the iron gates
And screamed like his neighbors
Though not out of pain and cold
But for her
And her hair
And her perfume
And her eyes
And her fingers
And her lips
And her love…

No comments:

Post a Comment