Dress rehearsal …
This free verse poem was written about a year ago, it is my interpretation of true life events that had been told to me by the people involved. Poetry is not my genre, but I do enjoy trying to better myself each time I write.
Standing in the dark shadows, his back up against the wall
his eyes like molten fire staring through the bars,
naked, stripped of his pride and liberty,
his painful memories cursing through his veins.
Muscles ripped, heaving chest glowing with sweat,
and his rage only controlled by the terror it rains from within.
She was beautiful, an obsession that lead to his demise.
Her breath, sweet like the lingering summer rain,
and she moved with an elegance that he admired.
When she kissed him, made love to him,
he was like a lamb to the slaughter
falling into the languid power captivated in her eyes.
His glare from under heavy eye lids
protruding and dilated, but not beyond despair.
His breath rasping, as tears fall bouncing on hard ground,
The stench of remorse flowing from every pore,
now, he is like a wild animal caged, regret showing on a furrowed brow.
She smiles at him, her lips pretty, pink and firm.
Her laughter more melodic than any sonnet he had ever heard,
her hair black as coal, as soft as the finest silk,
and her thighs as succulent as the ripest peach.
She loved him, owned him, but it was never enough.
Shackled, they walk him to shower away the grief,
He wants to drop to his knees and scream away his fears,
but he stands tall, again in the shadows with his back against the wall.
He watches them, watching him
and he smiles flashing white teeth.
She teased him, played him, loved him, destroyed him,
and ultimately lied about him.
Through false tears she could have saved him,
instead she condemned his broken heart, leaving him to rot in the hell of her
She uttered those words, and pointed the finger that sealed his fate.
He stands a man accused of a deniable crime,
a man crushed because of her ebony heart,
a man who became another statistic in a life of games.
They slide steel to steel and walk away, his shoulders slump; he’s played his part today.
Tomorrow, the dress rehearsal begins again.
I came to writing later in life, but according to my English teacher at school, I always had a vivid imagination and a gift of the word. I am not sure if I agree with that, but I do enjoy writing. Now at the age of 60, I still work; and I love the time that I spend with my grandsons, who have been both a source of inspiration in my life, and one of the most challenging rewards. It is true what people say, and that is with age comes a wisdom and a sense of peace not experienced before in life.
I am still learning, life is nothing but diverse.