Washed hands

dripping red cells,
stasis flowing as a river.
Then the substance-less red
mixes of water and current.

Its journey split and distances.
Rain and shadows come closer
while the river swallows mouthfuls
of brown-reddish bittersweet blood.

All that was left were dead hands,
washed away.
A blood sucking river
that melts with the ocean.
Silence is broken by the air's whisper,
a child's cry.

© Virginia H. Guarddon

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem