Afternoons
She sits, rocking,
In the only chair she can call her own.
She stares, silent,
At the white wall. (He doesn't allow color.)
There, on the wall, framed by the whiteness,
Hangs the painting --
The half-hidden profile, the half-clothed torso,
The hand, gripping the sword
That is dripping with blood.
Then she hears it: the familiar creak.
She starts; then she stops rocking.
Suddenly still, she sees the colors --
Colors of rust, of dried blood.
Slowly she starts rocking again.
She wonders what she's waiting for.
-Written by someone I'd expect to leave poetry lying aimlessly online for the world to divulge in.
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