His words were footsteps made
in wet snow,
imprints cold and heavy
hesitant but rushed as crossing roads
in winter, careful not to slip.
Through puckered lips his breath —
was a bourbon hearse,
hefty with the lard of age,
still he smirked at death…
Today Lilian hosts at dVerse poetics and gives us a number of graffiti images to use. The sad clown seemed like a safe bet.
November 14, 2017