As the brass bell rung
a silhouette slid to the center ring
with a heavy hand of history;
her words were like a hammer.
“I don’t love you anymore.”
Canvas pressed against a scarlet cheek,
like flesh scraped across pavement;
dizzy, drained, I slipped into darkness
as an echoing shell embracing Siberian nights.
Days passed like meandering streams,
a slow march through December.
I lost myself in her words
as I lost my faculty to feel.
The bottom is an empty barrel,
an empty chair,
an empty nest that birds called home.
As a means of survival I wrote her a letter;
“I never loved you.”
It was a lie born with a measure of truth.
It was a point that hid in quiet corners
waiting for the bell to ring.
Copyright © 2018 – Brian Nettles. All Rights Reserved