John F. McCullagh
To a Violent Grave
He was certainly buzzed,
Drunk, a better word,
When his convertibles wheel
Struck a tree near the curb..
A woman’s scream;
then silence, shock.
He whispered her name
But no one answered back.
The artist was dying,
But still he observed:
The drip, drip, of his blood
Onto asphalt that’s cracked.
Death imitates art.
Now break, gentle heart.
Sirens sound in the distance
a bright light in the dark.
As all neurons fired
in search of a spark.
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Comments about this poem (To a Violent Grave by John F. McCullagh )
- SHADES OF LOVE, sherif monem
- A Shoulder to Weep, Col Muhamad Khalid Khan
- Help me I am here, Dustin Hardin
- Into your kingdom, hasmukh amathalal
- High rise, hasmukh amathalal
- Before Death, Ajaeyy Raaj
- the toothless Tiger Dynasties, veeraiyah subbulakshmi
- The Spray, Akhtar Jawad
- Think and breathe, hasmukh amathalal
- Love for care, hasmukh amathalal
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