Ribbons

Interpret it as you choose.

She sits on the slender stoop
Of her back porch paradise retreat.
A silver ribbon in her hair shimmers in the light of the fireflies,
Like a docile snake in auburn grasses.
She stares idly at her reflection in a murky puddle,
A haunted expression upon her face,
Barely registering her own gaze.

She’s looking at me,
But she can’t see.
Not really.

She doesn’t notice me--
She can’t bare to see…
The broken thing I’ve become.

A rustle of leaves catches her attention,
Distracting my thoughts, too.
She ignores the rise of the flesh on her neck
And the shivers coursing down her spine
That make her pulse race,
Creating pearls of sweat to bead upon her brow,
Though she does not turn to the figure.
Intuition tells her it’s him.
“Eloquence is dead,” she says frostily to the silhouette
Barely above a whisper,
flouting the spike of fear.

“Eloquence is dead.”

She’s convinced, but I don’t believe her;
She’ll say anything to save herself.
Too bad he’s not inclined to listen…

He has other plans for her,
And they’ll rip your heart out.

He needs not your consent;
He’ll do so as he chooses,
And it’ll rip your heart out.

Eloquence is not dead, my dear.
Eloquence is not dead.

 

Author's Note

This holds a certain meaning for me, and I understand many of you may have different interpretations and that's just fine.

All criticisms welcome, really.

Reviews

[Michael Kerr]

its a great poem but what does it mean for you?

[Wildecat]

This is a well crafted poem, a definite pleasure to read your poetry.