The Perfect Color Approaching the mausoleum, Angels winked on either side, their nudity Out of place in the cold wind of December. The sack was heavy, A big brown bag slung over my shoulder, Bulging with the tools of my trade. I entered the dark chamber, Struck a match and lit the small torch Housed above the stone. The name looked the same As any other name I've hacked to bits With the hammer and chisel... Working the stone away from the opening, I let the pieces tumble to the marble floor Not caring if the angels heard. The newly deceased would shudder When I shook her from the box, but what could she say? It was a solid coffin, a rich white gleaming like the bones I needed, The solid, shimmering instruments that kept me fed. Yes, those and the long curls, And the eyes too, if they were the right color. I tugged at the box, but it wouldn't budge-- I chided myself for not bringing my partner. I pulled with every muscle, Pulled, cursing myself with obscenities fit only For the ears of the dead. I was too selfish and greedy, The kids needed to eat So I stood alone, alone in the flickering stench of decay. "Who are you?" I heard the voice, a small whisper Creeping from behind. A cold hand touched my cheek from the side, Icy lips touched my temple-- There was no one there. No one, I told myself...no one. I felt the touch, smelt the lingering floral scent, Saw the wisps of vapor taking form. There was no one there... Just a woman with long dark curls, and blue eyes-- the perfect color. Dena L. Moore November 4, 2001 The Perfect Color appears in my collection, Immortality Lives, and is currently available at Amazon.com, BN.com, Walmart.com, and most other online distributors. |
Poetry of Love, Loss, and the Occult |
The Perfect Color Approaching the mausoleum, Angels winked on either side, their nudity Out of place in the cold wind of December. The sack was heavy, A big brown bag slung over my shoulder, Bulging with the tools of my trade. I entered the dark chamber, Struck a match and lit the small torch Housed above the stone. The name looked the same As any other name I've hacked to bits With the hammer and chisel... Working the stone away from the opening, I let the pieces tumble to the marble floor Not caring if the angels heard. The newly deceased would shudder When I shook her from the box, but what could she say? It was a solid coffin, a rich white gleaming like the bones I needed, The solid, shimmering instruments that kept me fed. Yes, those and the long curls, And the eyes too, if they were the right color. I tugged at the box, but it wouldn't budge-- I chided myself for not bringing my partner. I pulled with every muscle, Pulled, cursing myself with obscenities fit only For the ears of the dead. I was too selfish and greedy, The kids needed to eat So I stood alone, alone in the flickering stench of decay. "Who are you?" I heard the voice, a small whisper Creeping from behind. A cold hand touched my cheek from the side, Icy lips touched my temple-- There was no one there. No one, I told myself...no one. I felt the touch, smelt the lingering floral scent, Saw the wisps of vapor taking form. There was no one there... Just a woman with long dark curls, and blue eyes-- the perfect color. Dena L. Moore November 4, 2001 The Perfect Color appears in my collection, Immortality Lives, and is currently available at Amazon.com, BN.com, Walmart.com, and most other online distributors. |
The front page poem changes every 2-3 weeks. All work on this website are original poems by Dena L. Moore and are copyrighted. If you would like to post any of my work on your site or in print, please contact me or my publisher for permission. The poetry on this site is only a very small sampling of my work. This page was last updated on July 6, 2003 Copyright February 2001 Dena's Poetry: Poetry of Love, Loss, and the Occult is Written, Designed, and Maintained by Dena L. Moore |
