The Harvest

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The Harvest

A lone figure was watching the scene unfold
as a young deer crossed the busy highway
it was a beautiful morning.

The truck swerved and disintegrated
sending shrapnel everywhere
sparks flew from scraping metal
the driver was killed instantly.

His truck slammed into a woman’s car
she barely saw it happen-too fast to react
her windshield breaking glass flying
it was the last thing she saw as she died.

Sticky warm blood leaks, drips, and pools
the smell of gasoline was strong
cooling metal making ticking sounds
dead muscles twitching.

The car was unrecognizable
tangled with the truck
the deer mutilated and decapitated
airbags were deployed but did no good
it seemed like forever sirens in the distance
the ambulance was first but the corner was called
firemen and police were busy trying to pick up the pieces.

Death was chuckling as he watched the spirits rise from the wreck
he swings his sickle wide
gathering up the dead his job done.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2017

Written for Imaginary Garden Of Real Toads giving an example of incongruity.

The Poet’s Dilemma

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The Poet’s Dilemma

Days and nights spent crafting words to perfection
fueled by cheap whiskey and non-filtered cigarettes
cut off from the very world he writes about.

His prose clever and filled with profound images
the darling of society
everyone wanted his company
designers gave him the finest garments
he lived in a stone mansion with a beautiful wife;
but on the inside…

The poet’s soul is tinted with the blackest black
he has no words left
his muse left him with no note
empty with no more to give.

He sits in his library at his big ornate desk
the glow of the candles outlining his frown
considering the writer’s block that has silenced him
feeling lost.

He inhales, his cigarette glowing red in the dark
he opens his desk drawer to get more whiskey
his handgun next to the bottle.

He pours himself a drink
as he has done so many times before
it burns as it travels down his throat
the loss of words was killing him
destroying him!

He put the handgun to his head and pulled the trigger.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2014

Shared with Poets United.

Hell

 

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Hell

My life is emptiness and drab
the golden ring I could not grab
the doldrums never go away
the emptiness it fills each day.

Black is the color of my dreams
awakened by my tortured screams
the flames they lick and burn my skin
as I remained entrapped within.

I hear the others move about
with flies and maggots pouring out
of gaping mouths that make no sound
from bodies that are never found.

Stripped of flesh and driven mad
the demons taking all I had
the fallen angels taunting me
my never-ending agony.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2016

Shared with Imaginary Garden Of Real Toads.

The Scream

©2012-2014 VVernacatola[3]

The Scream

I’m screaming out but no one hears
I’m all alone and filled with fear
no angels came my soul to save
no savior answered when I prayed
it wore me down for days and days
exhausted-all that’s good decayed
the devil’s instrument at play
I couldn’t keep the sin at bay
and now I have such hell to pay
forever gone I’ve lost my way.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2016

Written with Imaginary Garden Of Real Toads.

Split Seconds

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Split Seconds

Time flies without excuses
measured by decrepit faces
the pendulum weighs heavy
moments spent wanting more
in a split second
it happens…
a reaper’s blade chiming the end.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2016

Written with Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.

An Ill Breeze

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An Ill Breeze

Volatile emotional instability
pain so deep I can’t concentrate
desperation fuels my very being
broken and ignored for so long
hoping for some divine intervention
I took some sage advice from a book
I cast my troubles to the wind.

In my minds eye I released them
saw the foul things take to the air
a persistent festering of agony gone
as sweet relief showed herself to me
I held and kissed her deeply
the sweet taste of her was on my lips
but the wind quickly changed
became an ill breeze
that brought it all back.

© Rebecca Sanchez 2016

Written with Imaginary Garden Of Real Toads and shared with Poets United.