A Gray End

Her pouring tears

do not interest me.


But the hair that drips

down her bare back


till it brushes

against the black line


drawn at her waist–



Like dark champagne

Falling from a gold bottle


into a clear crystal glass–



heavy, and dark

as I grab the back


of her head and run

my fingers through the


strands. It’s coarse

like the raven.


I feel it drying

In my hands. I let go


because I remembered

it felt different


the first time.  I left her

on the colorless cliffside


and went on, but she stayed,

hands cupping her face,


catching tears that never ceased.

They just fell, eroding the red flush


from her cheeks

along with wind and time


until her eyes went white

and skin turned gray,


and her dead black hair broke

like ­­­ an empty promise


and fell to the torrid earth.


Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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