by tinethewordsmith


Her skin is mottled blue,

like the halo that

graces her eyes.


They’re hickeys born

of lipstick stains–

the rough woolen

threads of his

jaundiced nails and

the stolen kisses of

his two-by-fours.


She wears it around

though, that skin of

mottled blue–

love’s crowning glory.


It is a coat, knitted

by his golden tooth

and anvil fists, prized.

It is a story written in red.


His fingers made it

with petals plucked

from the cornflowers

grown on her face.


His tongue wove it

with the cornflowers

tended on her arms, and

 his foot crocheted the

shades of blue on her legs.


Then his love

sewed it on her

flesh and etched it

on her bone, with

the cornflowers

watered by her tears.


He is her rose.


She is his garden.

7 Comments to “Cornflowers”

  1. I admit freely that I don’t fully understand the meaning, but the imagery, and emotions are poignantly conveyed.

  2. Really lovely piece of writing. I would love if you would submit this to it is superb

If you enjoyed the poem. please leave a comment.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: