Sunday, April 15, 2007

don’t fight it-
this mudslide of swollen dreams

that whisks you toward the grave.
don’t say its

more than you can take
just take it-

over your skin, smooth like gin,
in a glass that is black

so you can’t see a thing
till it’s all too late.

flesh pressed against
the gate


hopes drip away,
gurgling down the

used to think
you would die if it all
turned out this way.

Then it did.


belladonna said...

your right. we should all embrace our lives even when it becomes a horrifying flight.

Susan Abraham said...

This is another clever poem, Sara. I love the analogy of skin & gin.

Marie said...

I really like this. It makes you think.

writerwoman said...

Hey Susan!

Thanks for stopping by. As always I am very appreciative of your continued support and friendship.



writerwoman said...

Thanks Marie!

writerwoman said...

Bella donna,

nice to meet you. It was sweet of you to take the time to comment on this poem. You gave me new insight into how a reader might interpet it.


crimsonflaw said...

beautiful again. the mud and the clogginess of it and how the mudslide and the grave are tied togehter metaphorically..

one of your dark pieces.