Don't do that-
don't stab me in the back
any more
with that old rusty fork
you call Wisdom.
It's just something
you recycled
and it hurts.
You need to know
that it hurts.
Midnight passes,
under star struck skies;
shots of vodka and
memories
clutter the table.
Your hands dance
as you lament,
judge;
your voice echoes,
casts shadows.
But
these ghosts are yours,
not mine.
I cling onto myself
and look to the future.
Comments
Beeme | January 28, 2011 - 07:26
Fabulous imagery Sunday, particularly the third stanza.
I really enjoyed! Love the hopeful ending :]
Beeme xx
seashore | January 28, 2011 - 08:28
Great!
fatboy74 | January 28, 2011 - 10:39
I think the line shots of vodka and memories cluttering the table is really well observed and something that speaks to more than a few. Really good poem. :-)
SundaysChild | January 29, 2011 - 09:03
Thanks for the comments, much appreciated :)