‘That’s a rose,
no, a bleeding heart,
no, a scarlet socks, wet, folded,
frozen blood,
the remains of a butchered fowl…’
The pandemonium rose into a crescendo
with each one trying to prove
themselves right.
Daggers and swords
were drawn
out of their sheaths.
Blood spilled,
warriors fell, beheaded.
And there remained
the rose, bleeding heart,
scarlet socks, wet, folded,
frozen blood,
the remains of a butchered fowl…
2 comments:
superb!
both in the depth of the theme and the way the poem is executed.
read it over once again. a typing mistake at one place? ('as pistols').
Venu Chettan: Is it okay now? Thanks a lot.
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