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the hand that fits the leather glove
Folder:
Poetry
broken shadows scissor the night,
silvered mirrors reflecting the light,
feathersoft pain in careful measures,
hidden deep with his only treasures.
minimal caring and picked at love,
by a hand that fits the leather glove.
wrapped in torment, wreathed in pain,
unthroned from glory, uncrowned from fame.
knocked out of the fight with a deafening scream,
a two-edged heart with a deadly gleam.
eliminated from a sensible life,
in his soul bound to carry a sharpened knife.
from his through a rough voice attempts to warn,
"death is ahead! please do not move on."
but, alas, it is stiffled and beaten down,
tragically sinking and beginning to drown.
unsaved and uncertain as to his end,
in need of, for once, a loyal friend.
but none step forward, none up to the challenge,
none want to disrupt the fragile balance.
so he dies, not in body, but worse: in his mind,
because one single friend he was unable to find.
