He leans and staggers, seems about to fall,
unbalanced, maybe wounded, drunk, half-sleeping,
leaving scarlet palm-prints on the wall.
Not blood but paint? So there's no need to call
an ambulance for this poor guy who's creeping,
staggering along, about to fall
through alleys past and present, through the scrawl
of palmistry symobology that's seeping
like a scarlet palm-print through the wall.
The wound is in the past, beyond recall
except that poisoned memories are keeping
him a-stagger. Soon enough he'll fall
and give up, helpless, lie there limbs asprawl
forgo whatever future's his for reaping
under scarlet palm-prints on this wall
or else he'll move. Get up, or maybe crawl
and leave the fortune-teller's doorstep, weeping,
staggering, recovering from the fall,
away from scarlet palm-prints on the wall.
Image courtesy of an untrained eye via Read Write Poem
Collection available! Knocking from Inside
Monday, May 18, 2009
Leaving the Fortune-Teller's
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4 comments:
Isn't that the way of it? Men always drink themselves into a staggering mess. They want to forget the past but, they can't. Well done. Have a nice night.
So fascinating to read the words inspired by my image !! I'm impressed by the elegance with which you've navigated the ambitiously restrictive rhyme pattern you've imposed on yourself. And the story you tell is so unexpected. You've really left me thinking. Thank you for sharing this.
Your talent for meter and rhyme is so apparent here. Well done.
Wonderful imagery!
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