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Marl and Blood The hem is skulking grimy paths by day, her dress of black bears all the scars of taint. Its trembled cloth of rue is edged with fray; bleeding hands pick at every thread and feint. She falls astray while pieces fill with sorrow and sharp, pointed droplets of tears abound. She’s gripped with ague hidden while her morrow and all her sobs still struggle without sound. Her ebon gown of marl has long been soiled, she searches for a cloak of woven white. The soft, tempting gathers linger unspoiled, their unsullied folds in absolute light. With bloodless hands she sees promised dawn, she scrubs the black from rags once called a dress till all dyes are then like an echoed song. The days are filled with barkless trees’ caress; roots in ruin, intrepid winds take sins. Her soul holds her clean-swept ivory dress, and washes dye her body laid with sin; with her brow un-seamed, she takes a fain breath. |
This Poem was Critiqued By: Claire H. Currier On Date: 2007-01-31 07:41:49
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.65714
Good morning, could not let the months's contest end without letting you know I have stopped by a few times to read this one and find it so different from your usual pieces that it is becoming priceless. Each read brings new images and thoughts associated with it. Thanks for posting, God Bless, Claire