still life

A silent action
figure at
my table,
my fallen
plastic hero.
A dust brown
miniature
fallen dead on my
yellowed table.  Late
afternoon buttermilk
light paints
him gently,
perhaps leaves the
little man a little
halo.  His
quiet hands grip a
lethal weapon.  He
does not
know how
lethal.  His
quiet hands

Reviews

[dontwakeme]

It's too good to be that short! I am left thirsting for more!!!

[Thoctar]

I think Sarah jha already said it, but ill say it again. Brilliant poem that positively drips melancholy. Truly epic.

[.]

. ohhhhh ... the melancholy in this poem ... it's spine-chilling ... brilliantly written ... and brilliantly presented ...