Poetry

Propaganda

Red sweeps across the heavily veined

fingers clutching tightly

at the bulbous purple node;

a ruby mass fails to plug the seam

that widens with each breath.

The stain soaks deep

into the carpet fibers,

already building its resistance to being cleaned.

A perpetual reminder,

unless covered by a rug

so full of patterns that the looker

feels nauseated if their gaze lingers.

But, of course,

even so garish a distraction

is preferable to the plans

lurking beneath it.

So they say.

 

Poetry

The Neat Gurney

A glimmer catches your eye,

you look closer, taking in

the brightness and separating it

from the image beyond.

There you see her eyes sparkling

blue, full of hope

that tugs at your being.

You dare to believe her optimism

is not misguided,

but then the mirror darkens,

clouded by a storm of muttering.

The doctor says this is normal.

Still, deep down,

you can’t help but fear

the worst.