Wow. I'm really bad at this whole "blogging regularly" thing.
Ah, well, life gets in the way and that's fine. In the meantime, I unearthed this little ditty from last semester's poetry class. It's another depressing one (because, really, it's hard to write a cheeky elegy), but it's a little more personal than some of my other poems turned out to be.
The casket made of wood and gold
was built to look like Grandma's did;
he loved her so, thirteen years old,
his trembling hand on her coffin lid.
The memory both heals and haunts...
An ember glows beneath the flames
before it dies... and he, too young
to cope with grief and loss, lies slain.
His still-warm fingers clutch the gun
that silenced all the Devil's taunts.
Three Elizabeths and the Sensory Life
6 days ago