Loose Threads

I sit quietly weaving memories of you around my fingers

First one hand and then the other

Picturing your sweet face, venom spewing between your lips

Blue eyes turn black, lovely smile becomes grimace

Cat’s cradle holds my hands captive, reminiscent of life with you

Panicked I pull threads loose, freeing myself

Savagely I wad the threaded memories into a ball

Pitch it into the fire where it bursts into bright flame

I smile and say to myself  “ Enjoy your trip to Hell dear”

Poem copyright protected and the property of Victoria Ramsey.

Not to be used without permission.

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Fleeing

Fleeing

I rolled over and watched you cry
It didn’t mean a thing
I sat beside you and heard your sigh
It didn’t mean a thing

I noticed the slump of your shoulders
I never questioned why
I’ve forgotten what your smile is like
I never questioned why

I carry on, my life is good
I really can’t complain
I have my secrets, fleeting loves
I really can’t complain

I notice your new demeanor
I really can’t explain
Brand new smile and confidence
I really can’t explain

I saw you with her in the parking lot
You didn’t care to explain
I questioned you as you packed your bag
You did’t bother to explain

Poem copyright protected and the property of Victoria Ramsey.

Not to be used without permission.

Sexy Red Dress

She wears her rage like a sexy red dress

Fitting her snugly, rather like a leather glove
Always conscious of how she moves
Wanting nothing to become exposed

She drags behind her a long red train
Acquaintances left speechless,
Tripping over their own tongues
Scorched by her viciousness
Parched by the her heat

She carries her wrath in the shape of a purse
Sharp rhinestones, beautiful to the eye
Their touch will rip you to shreds
Stand back as she passes, remember to smile

Poem copyright protected and the property of Victoria Ramsey.Not to be used without permission.

Silver Weaving

Enveloped in gossamer strands,
you leave your nocturnal work for me.
Out the door, into the sunrise,
steaming cup in hand.

Your sticky webs, invisible without
the backlighting of the sun,
capture me in their embrace.

A night time of intricate weaving’sweb
across my face and adorning my
already silver hair.
Still I have no appreciation of your handicraft.