The Statue

He take her hands in his
she is warm to his touch
and smiles though she has tears.
He leans forward and kisses her
 
tasting her mouth, salt on her
face. He is hot, she is is soft
as his tongue is aflame, his
stomach ablaze. Snow falls
 
as she steps back, smiling again.
There are flowers to gather and
snow flakes to catch, she mustn’t
miss her bus.
 
He stands as she withdraws her
fingers from his fire she turns
to go, he is rooted to the spot,
water running off him as she
 
catches snowflakes in her basket
and poppies in her hair. She sings
softly a lullaby to herself. He is
planted where he stands, watching
 
as her hair fills with crimson, her
basket with cool white. Slowly
she makes her way, as his blood
turns to stone in him and he
 
will never move again. She steps
aboard her bus, she gazes toward
the statue that she touched. It is time
to return to the asylum.
8 January 2016
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Author: chrissiemorrisbrady

I've read poetry since I was nine and have written creatively since I was fourteen (probably long before that). After writing book reviews and social comment, I decided I wanted to write poetry. I have no formal training, but I surround myself with poets and their writing. I am honing my craft. I have two published collections which I don't feel good about, but have been published by madswirl.com and other publications. I live on the south coast of England with my daughter. I am seriously ill.

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