Thick and rough your feet were—
Slave to frequent shift
of track, diverging.

You knew of his resounding footfalls:
wooing the hopeless, teasing cowards—
The reward for a claimed justice
as the condemned confessed a premature passing.

Limbs could be a little too wobbly,
A minute slower— almost converging
with the tip of his toes on your doorstep—
You knew he’d come…

But whatever he came for
slumbered amongst the dead still.

© Gheeneil


Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: