by Kimberly Richardson

Created on: November 16, 2009

Concentrate.

Slow and supple, strained

Beyond limits imposed by

The weak minded.

She told me that it would

Be difficult to believe

But once I did, the rest would

Be nothing.

I carried my own thoughts

Into the proverbial mixture,

Thinking that I had

A chance of redemption.

Instead, I found bitter virgins

Crying to a dead god,

Wondering why their eyes bled.

She told me that I was special,

Filled with stuff that made

others angry. And what

Kind of gift, I asked, would

That be?

Concentrate till everything

Is Indigo, she replied,

For nothing is what

It seems.

Learn more about this author, Kimberly Richardson.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.