The easiest fix, to let the head drop,
And gaze at dead stretched skin,
Shone to what you call perfection.

Ignore the nagging tick beside your ear.
Time is just expense,
Which you think you can afford.

Yet you forget,
you are resting on fragile stuff.
These sticks cut from hearts not yet fully grown.

Each unfolding wresting loose the bolts
you thought would hold for life.
Dust your hands with splinters.

Linking to the Sunday Muse Blogspot and one of Fireblossom’s photo prompts. (http://thesundaymuse.blogspot.com/).


20 thoughts on “Abdication

  1. That picture has an abandonment to it which you have captured, yet also the sense of being posed for effect, which you also show us in your beautifully structured and measured piece. So often what we think is perfection is just the stretched skin of something we’ve killed, a trophy that is meaningless and empty at the heart. Or so I read. Killer last line, and fine poem.

    Liked by 1 person

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