Hemlock

I gather a bundle of drooping wildflowers; 

they seem to wither when I touch- I take;

Fingers clutching limp stems, wet with dew-

I return to the sickly reflection in the lake.

The pallid figure staring back only feels cold; 

he is empty, his face gaunt and inhuman.

Coal-eyed, clawed, fanged, and venomous;

I extend my rot to him- he looks a demon.

I wait for a response- his gaze disgusts me;

mimicking gentleness with gross exaggeration.

I am ashamed of that man- he does not love;

there is no solace in practicing redemption.

I recoil- pull the wildflowers to his hollow chest;

sanity escapes me so often in a hurried flight-

what is left there- its absence is a comfort to;

I commune with will-o-wisps in the coming night. 

I leave the man in the lake as daylight breaks;

and in that misty bog, I wonder if he drowns-

When I return to him, will he have missed me? 

Perhaps the next set of wildflowers, he crowns.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

You write like a Kosinski novel. You bleed words and emotions to the paper.
"I recoil- pull the wildflowers to his hollow chest;
sanity escapes me so often in a hurried flight-
what is left there- its absence is a comfort to;
I commune with will-o-wisps in the coming night."
The above lines allowed the reader to understand what can be given. Thank you dear Anna for sharing the outstanding poetry.
Coyote