coppice | poem

Hands have no trouble holding the hilt

of the weapon which ensures their destruction–

yet they begin to tremble when accused

of their own destructive nature.

Lips kiss the chrysanthemums and forget-me-nots

for forever, or until their

saliva-drenched state quenches

their selfish, sloppy temper.

Hearts construct high, guarded castles of ash

and black bark, concealing themselves

behind dense bushes of deep red cherries

and the corpses of dead doves.

Eyes carry the unsung wishes of humans

who feared too much to dream

but lived so carelessly

that now nothing exists at all.

So let all be still and silent

in the coppice that is forever damned

to the liminal–

forever nearly dead, forever never alive.


3 Comments Add yours

  1. judeitakali says:

    Beautiful writing Sammi

    Liked by 1 person

  2. sammicakes says:

    Grateful for your words as always ❤️


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