The Sanctum of Sanity

The End Begins

 

                                                            
                                                             The end begins,
                                                             not with the first stain
                                                             of red sputum on a white handkerchief.
                                                             Nor by fingers grown numb with
                                                             seizure from the heart’s decay.
                                                             But, with an act
                                                             that leaves a toy discarded
                                                             in the nursery of early choice,
                                                             reviving for abandoned deeds
                                                             the doppel-gangers of dead youths,
                                                             clothed with reproach and unfleshed
                                                             figments of the mind’s high hopes of
                                                             futures fenced in a child’s green field,
                                                             that now is hedged; and ploughed,
                                                             and grown bitter with a
                                                             named and known crop.

                                                            © James Rainsford 2011

Note to readers: 

Posted in response to the picture prompt from Greg Laychak The subject of a great interview at: One Stop Poetry.

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