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Decorated by ~CreativeFlair:iconCreativeFlair:

Categories Literature > Poetry > Human Nature > Open


It opens
from bud to bloom,
a poinsettia in the palm
of his fat, ruddy hand.
In the hospital, we wait
for a diagnosis they missed:
all for the bauble, crushed in his fist.
©2006-2008 ~CreativeFlair
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Submitted: December 14, 2006
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Author's Comments

I think I like this one.


Please don't ask me what it means. Truth be told, I don't even know. Words just happen like that.

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*Spamuel:iconSpamuel: Dec 21, 2006, 11:05:05 AM
ahha! i think ive made an interpretation! :D

tis a grenade, yes? and he doesnt realise what it is, hence he holds it in his hand? hmm... maybe...

--
The Moving Finger writes, and, having writ,
Moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears blot out a Word of it.
~CreativeFlair:iconCreativeFlair: Dec 21, 2006, 5:14:50 PM
Maaaaaybe?


It's pretty much open to interpretation. I think your idea is cool though . . . if not a little worrying =p

--
Decorated./Matryoshka
~Dragonfly2093:iconDragonfly2093: May 28, 2007, 3:06:33 AM
I thought it was literally a bauble he'd crushed in his hands. That must hurt. *shudders* just thinking about it.
`AbCat:iconAbCat: Jul 16, 2008, 9:00:00 AM
It's a seizure, surely. This is good stuff.
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