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
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Kelley, this is simply magnificent. Such a beautiful piece. 🙂
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Great poem
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Reblogged this on Beckie's Mental Mess and commented:
Original Post by Kelley Farrell “Author On An Blog” – This was a MUST SHARE!
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That was very beautiful! Quite fantastic!
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Thank you
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