Slowly tears patter;
onto your sweet face.
Memorize as blood stained,
fingers longingly trace.
An etching of you,
amateur engraving,
desperate attempt at saving.
Delicately dabbing at your sores.
Evidence of traveling, through
your own little war...for nothing.
You are too still,
as I dress you.
You'd wriggle-escape,
from nappy time soon.
And your hands,
crafted, for guitar.
To play in the band,
with your brother.
Fingers soft as tiny petals,
on the most feathery flower.
And I have to leave you soon,
I don't even have 1 hour.
All Writing.Com images are copyrighted and may not be copied / modified in any way. All other brand names & trademarks are owned by their respective companies.
Generated in 0.09 seconds at 9:11pm on Nov 08, 2024 via server WEBX2.