It Came

You were a pile of broken bones,
desperately crying for someone,
anyone,
to put you back together.

You were a fly caught in a web,
trying to flee the black widow,
trying,
but she came one night.

You were a ghost in a window,
screaming for those inside to see,
hear,
but you were long gone.

You were a torn up photograph,
waiting for someone to repair you,
waiting,
but you were beyond repair.

I was a farmer with the tools,
to revive your field of hopeless death,
yet,
I planted more and more.

No matter what I did to help,
it was never enough to save you.
Never.
I never thought you would do it,

but you threw away your bones,
let the black widow come,
broke through the window,
and set your image aflame.

Death is a calling,
and it came.

Author's Note

I recently began experiencing things that reminded me of a very painful past, but I'm now getting back on my feet and wrote this as a way of accepting everything that's happened. Hopefully I will be able to move on. Any thoughts?

Reviews

[Chris Shaw]

Your poem is quite dark, I got the impression of someone desperately trying to help another, without success. Hopefully you have turned the page now and can move forward.

Chris