The Witness

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.

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