whirlwind

the helicopter rises and with their
frantic blades spin light breeze
into a whirlwind until every leaf
is turned and secret veins are
uncovered where upon you stray
from this blood driven path when
since i lost (you), the pulse
stopped— forever i am maimed
and frightening becomes nothing
more than strange inadequacies
leading me into tomorrow with neither
bickering birds nor the anxious
flutter of trees to look forward to

© mr gahon 6/8/15

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About mr gahon

poet... writer... culinarian... i like to work with food that appeals to the senses, write words that taste even better View all posts by mr gahon

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