Torn

To speak of suffering
is to speak of rainbows,
of spectrums,
of a thousand shades—
of infinite degrees of pain.
Yours began as blue
and curved into navy
before it went black.
Even the small bits of white
that gave us hope
dissolved into your dark abyss.
Your mind, your child—
your two brightest lights
could not eclipse the single
hollow circle of the noose—
thin as a sheet
and torn with your final
desperate wish.

 

DeMaris Gaunt
8-5-15

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