Dirty Pretty Thing
The late August sun creeps up the porchAnother dusk arrives melting among fallen leaves
The sunset kisses her feet
As her soul cradles in her wilting rocking chair
The dust of old memories faintly sparkles in the flood of the bleeding autumn
Smothered in green spring vines
Stained by summer rains
Rotted by faded winter snow
Her hands gripping a withered photo
Rich in ghostly ashen folds
Sparked by nights draped to her bosom
In brokenhearted arms
A silhouette of a son
Lost forever beneath cascading mud and exploding shells
"My poor little angel
My dirty pretty thing"
Poetry by Shas Ramlogan
Read 1320 times
Written on 2006-05-03 at 03:02
Tags Love  Loss  War 
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