Poetry · Writing

A Saturday Night

The goal wasn’t always red.

Blood washed rewards,

dripping palms, oh lord have I sinned.

Those chains held me down

 

but now I’m free. I’ll let

these hands drip, I might wash

them tomorrow. I wouldn’t

count on it, I need this red

 

and I wear it like a wedding ring.

The goal use to be blue but then

the steel fell. I buried myself

on that lone night only to wake,

 

seeing red.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s