Thursday, 24 July 2014


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.

Anna :o]

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 Netherlands