Carved up.
Hung out to dry on a winter’s branch.
He’s not going to come back around.
The hand that caressed so gently
held the surgical precision that exercised so slowly.
He’s not going to come back around.
Grasping the snowflakes of memories.
They melt on contact when desperate urges lash out,
too brittle for a bandage to blockade against the knife’s turn.
There’s always a hope from a fading lantern’s glow
as the lightbearer faints under the weight of their guise.
The cloaks pulled down show the hidden faces of the dear ones.
Words snake about to snare a riding hood,
dressing up as smiles that never bear meaning,
with an apple in their sights ripe for the picking.
Stranded in the snow.
Drowning silently.
Carved up without a lung to scream with.
Carved up and wishing for a hunter to reverse its shot.
Those eyes paint a portrait of lust beyond your frame.
Ashes eat away at recollection.
Dust will not hold a name in a sea of falling snow.
He’s not going to come back around.
An arrow is drawn taut and fired true.
The shields in its path bow out of step for a finishing blow.
Dream in the grip of seasons with crimson coloring the ground.
It is already off and away to the next vessel to strip.
Disposed in a forgotten triste.
Carved up.
Consumed.
Left empty in the breeze.
Not a thought will be spared for the scene.
( ❤ Mitch)
The Works of Mitch Worden 