The Successful

A poem, its kind of dark I guess.

(so maybe I was in a bit of a morbid mood when I wrote this one, forgive me.)


We see the faceless
come with their straw brooms
to sweep away the good deeds
we have so tenderly done,
as if they were sports of dust
on their sterile floor.

The words of our heart
are arranged on the blank, white pages,
like roses in the spring garden,
beautiful in our eyes.
They come to cut the stems,
placing red roses in a blue vase
on their kitchen table,
and watch as they die.

Our awkward hands
do the work of the angels,
the creation of masterpieces.
They sever our hands,
their elegant wings
made from our delicate fingers,
leaving us with nothing but bloody lumps,
to watch how high they can take flight.