Wednesday, January 16, 2008


On the forest floor away from his neat pile of clothes
he was found in a puddle of red,
devoid of the warmth he once gave so freely to others;
veins depleted entirely.
Never again to feel the daily terror that consumed
every waking moment and
the gash on his left arm perhaps to some a badge of defeat
was his portal to
His job was completed yet not in a fashionable sense
but still took him home
away from the hackneyed words that ate at his inner core;
no longer afraid.
Who's to say that he had no right to do what he did,
still causing trouble and sorrow;
once named a "felo de se" at least this time he earned it;
his final day, on his way to


paisley said...

bravo!!! bravo!!! bravo!!!!!

Anonymous said...

Incredible. Truly. And very Sylvia Plath-ish. I think this is the best you've written, IMHO.