Every time I ran my hands through my
hair,
I felt the sweat, dirt and gravel from
between the toes of
my ancestors. Faded, Dark Caesars
release the spirits
as they, too, fled to France in search
of flowers without
thorny stems that bring droplets of bad
memories
with each sprinkle of salt in the
water.
Rinsing sugar scrubs that remove dead skin
like Garra Rufa that
pool in Turkish rivers,
where the current's
strength reminds me
that everyone goes through a
time
when they're not strong enough to stand
on their own two feet.
It doesn't mean
they're at the knees
of their rivals: it's the makings of a
rebel getting lessons
on survival.
And still, I wonder if
it's just me:
a half-moon-haired bastard who
sacrificed
everything to give his all to what started as a
soliloquy;
but selfless, like cutting ties with my
doppelganger
as he's a harbinger of death.
as he's a harbinger of death.
©2014
Anthony Desmond Scott. All Rights Reserved.
Poem inspired by Brooke Shaden's, 'Thorns That Flowers Grow;'
And Dante Gabriel Rossetti's painting, 'How They met Themselves.'
For d'Verse - Poetics