09-29-2016, 02:48 PM
Young Man's Grief
Not like a knife
but like a hundred hundred needles
grief shoots through,
prick by prick drawing
out of the body the color
(not merely red
but the defining plethora
of blues and greens, golds and browns)
until the skin is a shout
to all existence, saying
"Lost keys? Broken homes? Ruined hands?
Ha! Your art may sting
but I still hold the knife."
Not like a knife
but like a hundred hundred needles
grief shoots through,
prick by prick drawing
out of the body the color
(not merely red
but the defining plethora
of blues and greens, golds and browns)
until the skin is a shout
to all existence, saying
"Lost keys? Broken homes? Ruined hands?
Ha! Your art may sting
but I still hold the knife."