Crying for the Dead

[birgitta_nell@y]

I wrote this a while ago in response to the murder of a child.

Crying for the dead

Hot tears
Slide down in tiny rivulets,
They make a shining trail
Dripping down, down,
Ever so slowly.

So sad.
Almost pointless.
Aimless questions float
Like grey rain clouds.
Their heavy burdens exhibited
On pale and drawn cheeks.

Cruel mortality
And hasty inevitability
Rushed out and snatched away
Something so young and innocent
So tears flow openly
In remembering another light lost
To the crimes of others.

[blazeofglory]

I wrote this a while ago in response to the murder of a child.

Crying for the dead

Hot tears
Slide down in tiny rivulets,
They make a shining trail
Dripping down, down,
Ever so slowly.

So sad.
Almost pointless.
Aimless questions float
Like grey rain clouds.
Their heavy burdens exhibited
On pale and drawn cheeks.

Cruel mortality
And hasty inevitability
Rushed out and snatched away
Something so young and innocent
So tears flow openly
In remembering another light lost
To the crimes of others.

That is where a poet proves himself or herself, to indeed sing a song of woes.
You did is magically as if the spirit of the child possesed you for a while.

I sense there is something, the mind of a poet
to smell of things around

If we fly in imagination ignoring everything we see around we can not be the poet we choose to be or the poet in the real sense.


But you did it and I am impressed. Press ahead.