Sometimes she hangs there
throttled by a string of bleeding hearts
I love you y’know she says
(she whispers it, pulsates it out).
And here he sits,
drowning in blood-red horizon.
He says: I know I know.
And slowly suffocates,
longs angel lust, last man standing.
She is the noose around his neck,
the spittle on his arid tongue.
She is the death of him.
Due to life circumstances, I have a serious case of writers block. Claudia at dVerse has us writing bold metaphors and images. I don’t know whether the above quite fits the bill – but after weeks of a dying thirst in an arid desert – I have finally completed something. So I shall offer it.
Perhaps it is a metaphor for my present circumstances…
Image: Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Author: Sander van der Wel from