Bleeding Lips - Poem by Peggy Pollock
A sudden distaste for my own music
Calls for a silent torture
And I wonder
At my own misfortune
Deeper into thought
How if something's perfect, unbroken
Can anyone, or thing, get in?
And I bite my lip ‘til it bleeds.
With bleeding lips I press a kiss unto a lidded vase.
And watch as blood trickles down the breast and down the vases thigh
And turns to mud, to dust, leaving nothing but a trail of rust
And I cry.
For the blood we spilt
Let flowers wilt
And soon they come to die
Comments about Bleeding Lips by Peggy Pollock
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.