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Dew on Rose.

Heather Lydia Thornhill 1981 (Manchester)

The scrapyard made her sag her head
only the corn cob in her hand aligned to a beautiful world.
Her hands ached in pain having smeared the scorched cigarette ashes on her lips, giving up on catching man's eye for the day.
Dew had collected over night softening
the yellow petal of a dress, moist and striped in pink.
Vulnerable it stilled the body, allowing the stroke to last longer than usual.
As calm and soft as the tiny white dog was
it's person was raging an inner tug of war,
as if angels were on one end and humanity the other.
Humanity was winning, their stories becoming too attractive and the entice would be the fall of them.
One by one their hearts exploded in light,
their swords of love having stuck to every provoking thought.
Becoming man itself was not that easy though their wings were lost, ever glowing they walked towards humanity begging them for mercy.

About this poem

Fingerprints leave their trace wherever you go.

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Written on September 11, 2021

Submitted by heathert.34240 on September 11, 2021

48 sec read

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