begging

a plea,
placed gracefully
by paper hands,
set upon the ground like
glass bowls
or those sugar skulls
that come around
about twice a year.

she knit it meticulously,
crafting every word
around her flowered mouth
like her father
wrings shine from iron
and blood from faces
in the dungeon,
or, well, did
before he joined their ranks
as she flew to the bars
only to scrape her hands
on the rough wood.



the plea ignored,
smashed, broken,
left for dead
like her infant sister
a week or so ago.

she collects herself
takes a deep breath,
her shoulders moving
and the tight blonde ringlets
traveling with them,
and joins the ranks
of those who opposed her,
on her captor's arm.

Reviews

[Tim Lion]

Brutally sad. I'd like a bit more meat: I understand this is in the moment, but it'd be cool to have a concise description of who we're talking about woven into the description of the background and event. I really feel this one to my core. Brilliant poetry. And my suggestion is but a suggestion based more on personal preference than anything else. Great piece.

[Kenneth The Poet]

Lost in a dark moment I see.