A poem for stormy's poetry contest |
The Luckiest of the unlucky With hand a tremble She dipped her quill of love into the crimson ink of her heart, sating its hollow Her emotions flowed across the parchment A profession of love she penned A letter of promise to her departed Whom she could not follow All the night before she had lain with him Now, alone in the coolness of her lonliness His warmth was sorrowfully missed Before the morning's awakening She had placed her written word into his vest The memory left her weeping of the last time they kissed With hand a tremble He unfolded the reason he had drawn his sword His mind trying to recall the taste of her lips or the feel of her hair His breath now a wane, his body cooling to a chill The sounds of war faded as he lay upon the damp soil Steam from the fallen now rising as one with the misty morning air The once red letters she had written were only a blur to him But he needed not to see them He knew by heart what they said A smile found him as his eyes softly closed His last thought, like her memory, drifted from him I'll be the luckiest of the unlucky lying among the dead |