Bluebell With A Broken Heart

All my friends have bleeding palms
They raise them against
The claustrophobing windows
Of their bedrooms and kitchens
When they think no one’s looking
Making strange stained glass
Swirling patterns
Abstract designs
And the names of people
They should be forgetting
Because all my friends have
Broken hearts
They stitch them together
With threads of religion
And philosophy and
Making arrhythmic beats
Ill-conceived flow
Ill-conceived pathways
That force surging cells down
Through bruised arms and
Chaffed wrists
Towards their upturned
Hands dug too deep by
Ragged fingernails

Someone whispers with
The quiet authority of rage
All this is surely a sign of our times
But I’m inclined to think it’s just
A sign of my age

June 2008 Derek Wilson

~ by Derek Wilson on April 4, 2009.

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