Regret

Another poem from my class…

 

He turns,

wrapped in the wings

of a thousand crows –

angry, desolate,

and black as jagged onyx stones.

He is not Death,

even with those gaunt eyes

and sunken cheeks –

skin that used to know

what it felt like to have pigment.

And those fingers –

brittle and warped,

but still strong enough to strangle

hopes

             dreams

                             ambitions

                                                   futures.

Not quite Death –

Regret.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: