by Blaine Ely
Iridescent skies and blood stained floors,
glass scattered in shapes of trees
blowing and bending,
their strength tested by
eager hands and deceitful lips.
I walk careful over their burial ground,
brilliant colors glowing and suffering
through the last walk no one wants to take.
I reach for the picture on the mantle,
brutal and dark,
holding the face of the spectator,
the only witness.
I stare into her eyes
and ask her what she saw,
the one loose end.
Raging and unbearable,
I break her,
shattered flesh and tears,
trees swaying and cracking,
limbs falling and sinking into dirt.
But I saw someone,
something in the tree still intact,
staring and laughing,
begging to suffer.
Another loose end.
Blaine Ely is a senior Creative Writing major attending Western Kentucky University, where he hopes to pursue his M.A. in English. He has poetry publications in Every Day Poets and The Dead Mule.