When I was young,
Wandering the French Quarter,
I picked up a little doll.
It was straw,
Scraps of fabric sewn,
Haphazardly strewn,
Over my little loves eyes.
Then I met you,
The music in my soul.
The doll grew old.
We were young,
Self narrating stories meant for two.
Our love grew blue
Like jazz on a rainy day
Or soul songs in a minor key.
The little doll,
Rife with Orleans memories,
Became a hated thing.
In blind passion
I ripped and tore,
Never realizing it held my score.
Now I’m torn,
Shreds of skin and bone,
Hanging bare.
Finally you’re home.
What’s the matter dear?
Are you scared?
Am I not beautiful enough
With my haphazardly strewn skin
Sewn over my eyes?
There are posts over at The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch waiting for you!
interesting
Thank you
Kelley, this is simply magnificent. Such a beautiful piece. 🙂
Thank you
Great poem
Thank you
Reblogged this on Beckie's Mental Mess and commented:
Original Post by Kelley Farrell “Author On An Blog” – This was a MUST SHARE!
That was very beautiful! Quite fantastic!
Thank you