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"Poetry is the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash." Leonard Cohen

Monday, October 6, 2014


She has the sense
to know it's finished
Everything that's kept
her connected
to all that was vital
has been flayed
or torn apart
All that is left
to remind her
of what was, hangs

Tattered, tangled
and twirling striped,
strips the only semblance
signs, or signals
that once she had speech

Before she was broken
Back when she knew
her name
She spoke words,
her own poems.

Now she keeps them:
the words, her voice,
and the poems
in rusted goblets,
beside her bed
Next to the sheets
folded there
waiting for
she knows not what...


  1. This is filled with sadness and a sense of diminished worth. Sometimes moment can rip our lives asunder, and I'm left wondering what brought your narrator to such depths. Well wordled.

  2. Maybe something different and better awaits...I hope for the same as the paper lies by my bed

  3. I really, really like this one!


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