By the time the cops came
The game had run its course,
The blood stained mess
Was all too clear,
He lying head beat open,
She by the fridge
Downing a glass of milk
With the white innocence
Of a babe, but gazing
At the gory floor as if
It were some dumb dream
And she the idle dreamer
Sunk up to the bloodied knees
Of someone else’s
Deadly dream of death.




Comments: 9
Z'
Sometimes never to gain fruition.
Sometimes never to be spoken aloud, only in the deepest of sleep.
Thanks Terry
If you get a chance to read this one of mine, you might enjoy it (if I can get the hyperlink right!)...
The Small Girl