A bullet through the cerebellum
for every wasted spell and them some.
Finding all your secret flowers
bloodied in a silver rain.
And iron gates that line the coal mines
lead the horses to refrain.

Whispers for the hemorrhage home,
and all the blood that roams.
From out the green and ghostly island,
mist runs dead to foggy skies.
High above, beneath the orchids,
lights of life are lilac dyes.

And all the colors seem so grim,
for he who walks them, he that's him.
His life of loss and ferry rides
that lead him like a steed to shore.
Out from banks of snow to stow
some guns away to rob a store.

A bullet through the spinal column -
every breath, another problem.
And counted with the ghosts of winter,
include in that their weight of worth.
And from the splendid, pregnant summer,
came her sullen after-birth.

Great write as always PP...

As always, much appreciated.
When do I get to read your stuff, Ainjel?

great stuff imagery great

I haven't found time to write for a while...I come in here bursting with prose, then end up reading all that is here, and end up forgetting what I was going to do...haha...I will get my A into G and get there eventually...

Fabulous write.

Vivid images, great ending, great poem

nicely done p_p

Beautiful use of words, though I have to admit I'm intrigued as to what your motive was. Flows perfect, word choice amazing, brilliant as usual mate.

As weird as it sounds it was a sort of reflection about the past couple generations on my father's side of the family... coming from Ireland, stealing horses, and robbing stores.

Thanks, all, for the comments. They are always much appreciated.