by Richard Trotter
Lace and shallow pools
in the finest of crypts
withered by lines unborn
suggest a false tomorrow.
Yet if her naked hand
was placed on my angry leg,
drinking her pallid tears
are we simply rearranging
pain, like the morning cleaner
upon the city steps?
Author's Note: (old)
Posted on 01/16/2004
Copyright © 2020 Richard Trotter
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 01/19/04 at 01:27 AM|
Brilliant expression: are we simply rearranging
pain, like the morning cleaner upon the city steps?
|Posted by Kalikala Smith on 01/20/04 at 12:35 AM|
i'm likin the whole rearranging pain thing too. very good work:)
|Posted by Mara Meade on 01/20/04 at 10:19 PM|
I almost feel as though I'm looking at cold, grey marble steps where the lovers once sat... melancholy, this.
|Posted by Ginette T Belle on 02/02/04 at 10:48 PM|