PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

She is something quiet,
Like a bird whose neck has been crushed against
the pane of an
Invisible bedroom window.
Her fingers find no sweetness in
the palms of your gloves,
Leather and toughness and
Everything she knows
you
Are not.
Who would have known that
She in all her solitude
would find her
Way to
fire off a warning to rival some
Titanic ship of souls
slipping beneath the deep.
she likes to watch the ants crawl
Up the wall
and crush them under her pinky finger,
the black streak an abstract
Reminder of her
failed Artistry.
How ever could she know
That you
would commit yourself to the death of
something she always thought pure:
Common Sense.
It is you who prays, you who
Cries, who speaks in tongues and angels’ voices
and keeps your scriptures under your feet
As a holy lamp unto your holy path,
but it is
She who will be crucified,
it is she
Who is your martyr.