We walk through crumbled brick
hand in hand
dark remnants
of our former lives
lie battered and torn
around us.
Grey sun lies
in the air above
mist flows through
fallen towers
smashed ivory and defiled gold
as far as we can see
Cold wind blows
the mist away
strokes the bodies
of former friends
crushed, broken
among the brick
Beside a piece of rock
amidst a patch of brown
death and dirt, a single
iris blooms.
I dig the flower by the roots
place it in your hair
Robert Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry just outside Cleveland, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Chiron Review, Pink Litter, and The Literateur, among others.
Very fine poem!
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