Monday, August 15, 2016

Poetry: Trapped


Could it be a coup de maître; could it be a coup de "farce"; could it be a coup de grâce; or, perhaps, a coup de cœur after a coup de foudre?

You decide.


Exploding creation pounding at the doors;
Frostbitten embryos pushing at icy wombs;
The faster you grow, the harder the rain falls.
Terrorized by Hypnos arrhythmic breaths,
Ethereal truths bleed in a dead language;
All are trapped in the threads of Death’s shroud.

Mimi Wolske

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