He bleeds Autumn.
Your skin like the yellow brick road,
and what is it that creates that rush of blush?
I’d love to shovel out your flesh or drill through your cheeks
to reach those autumn leaves,
that grow behind the golden weeds,
the red leaves that were never green.
No, never new, they never grew,
they stayed and they remained:
Dying, but never dead,
thriving, behind your face of golden thread.
Tue 16th May 2017 13:29
Thank you Graham!
Mon 3rd Apr 2017 10:02
Your rhyming sequences in this piece are very effective Alexandra. One of your briefest offerings too, meaning every word is important and will be scrutinised.
It feels tightly written like a small parcel. I rather like it!
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