You are no prince riding to my rescue.
The castle is long breached, and I still sleep,
covered over by nettles, or roses–
it does not matter which, as long as there is that sting
to thread blood in cursive across skin,
a language of no, though it is unspoken
and sounded in bloom.
Bring me no roses, as I cannot hold
their color of loss, of remembering
the hot metal stink of what drives us,
I will save myself from them, from us,
from you; broken glass
the only vase I own.
Powerful, Susan. Excellent use of those hard-k consonants for effect. Subtly punchy.
Thank you, JCC!
Spiced with c’s like bits of pepper…
Sounds quite yummy 😉
amazing work, Susan. especially those last 3 lines
Thank you so much, Stacey!
Excellent, Susan. Excellent.
Thanks so much, Trent!
“A language of no.” I really like that line. What would form your language of yes, Susan?
I’d be interested in reading that too.
I think I wrote that one already 😉
You did. . . and I liked it then. . . and still do now. 🙂