Statue

Statue

An uneasy

moving target,

the only psychopath

in the room.

 

It’s the blood

on the fingertips

that gives him away,

ominous really.

 

And the nature

of his aggression,

the only Palm

in a Pine forest.

 

Easily identified,

understanding,

the only determination.

 

It’s something

in the eyes,

perceived intensity.

 

As his heavy footfalls

thunder down

a crowded hallway,

leaving rocks

where a statue use to stand.

 

Trading a broken heart

for the hourglass.

 

Sympathy,

tinged with regret.

 

A dead ringer

with a caustic smile,

swiftly lighting

a cheap cigarette.

Reviews

[Mel Jayne]

cool poem, i like the tone of this piece and the use of minimal words that have a powerful effect.