She is flat against the forlorn floor,
Her dead eye caps emanate drops no more,
Her hands are like drooping dandelions,
Their only abilities, to moan and drone.1
She can’t stand on her shallow-squirmed leg,
Her bones are cricked, for recovery they beg.
And her kissing lips and her drowsy throat,
As dead dry as a musty loaf.2
She opens her mouth with courage to fight
Yet the swollen glands are like a knot, tight.
Not one tick or thud has been heard till now.
And her sight is piteous, not faintly malicious.3
My heart soundly aches for her,
She’s astray, wants to conquer but needs a spur.
So I stretch a tender hand to sooth her back
But there’s just air, me and a shiny blur…4
A contest entry
- Think you gotz poetry skillz? by Naive..
190 points, ended September 26, 65 entries
• next story in this contest, remove from contest
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