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The Winners
November 9, 2014
A crown of laurel placed upon the tip-top of my head,
That’s how I knew for sure you were dead.
Laurel,
Green and luscious like floral,
Never smelled so sick to me.
It was he,
The man with the wolf hands,
He’s the one who killed you.
Muscles that ripple under skin,
The build of a bull,
He’s the one who wore you so thin.
I’m sorry my love,
But why,
Why!,
Could you not just rise above?!
© Andrea S., Oakhurst, CA
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