I see your nose;
the slight turn at the tip
carries the spirit of death
like a cowboy in a showdown,
fingers fused to the trigger,
ready to spin black into white
at a wriggle and a twinkle
that can hang up stars
or split a nation like splitting
of personalities.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
Good poem, Autumn. Thanks. DavidM
Hey David, Thanks. Appreciate it.
Autumn
Post a Comment