Red Ribbon

Where It Led

The field corrupted now by winter
Stretches out beneath my feet
Like so much grey woolen cloth
Rolled out upon a table.
The road, like shining silver shears,
Divides the place in two,
The path is glinting with the dew,
A mantle of the early rain.
A sparrow flits upon the wind,
His grey wings quickening
Through approaching dark,
A red ribbon caught between his claws.
Intrigue abounds as my eye is caught,
I step out further upon the wool,
Down the edge of the silver shears,
Following the ashen winged bird.
He wants to be a great leader,
I know, I can tell, I can feel,
But his wings betray him,
He begins to speed and fade.
My feet are clumsy with the cold,
I cry for him to wait, watching the ribbon,
I tried to follow where it led,
But I sorrowfully fell short.

Coronary Banishment

My heart must go
If I am to stand any
Chance in this world.
My heart must go
If I am to become
Anything fast and famous.
My heart must go
If I am to be the one
Who fires first into the dark.
My heart must go
If I am to be the one
Who raises the bloody knife.
My heart must go
If I am to take
The low road.
My heart must go,
Though I long to take
The less-traveled road.
My heart must go,
Though I long
To keep a thread.
My heart must go,
Though I have now
Forgotten why.
My heart must go.
My heart must go.
My heart must go.
Yet still it beats.

On Ragged Stems

You always had a lovely singing voice.
The words were like flowers
Blooming on stems,
Some taller, some shorter,
Yet they fell together
Into a garden of harmonious perfection.
If your voice caught,
You laughed through it
And carried on, all the more lovely for it.
You could sing through anything,
Through war and life and love.
You even sang through sickness,
Though the words tripped you up
So often and more harshly by
The line.
The flowers still bloomed
On stems, though shorter,
The color washing away,
The notes fading.
Even when the music stopped,
Your trembling lips kept moving,
You still knew the words,
You still sang the songs,
You whispered the ballads
Into your grave.
And here I sit,
With nothing to give you.
Naught but a handful of wilting flowers
On ragged stems.
Forgive me, please.
I always had a terrible singing voice.

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

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Red Ribbon

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