Remnants

By Rachelle King

He used to tell me
I spoke of humanity
with “a tongue like [ancient] flower petals.”
I never completely understood
what he meant
by word
engulfed in meaningless brackets
sometimes used by young poets
to create emphasis.

Three years later,
studying this illusion
observing the permanent residence
of black rings
around my eyes,
realization shattered
oblivious image
gazing in disbelief.
Fists clenched
rusted dewdrops
and glistening tangles
of distorted reflection.

Elder blossom
wept for her lost vitality,
for a wilted petal
aged from the weathering
of an arid world,
for gained wisdom
[often unwanted]
of human deficiency.

Talkback: Post Reply | View replies (3)