Imagined Death

In a horse meadow with manure and yellow buttercups,
a lone and hollow oak stood stubborn
with its two branches cutting a rigid cross
against the secret sky

like an empty giant coat stand.

Suffocating under its cloak of ivy,
the decaying oak recieved life
from blood.

Upon the tree,
hung a woman, whose trickling blood
whispered secrets to the gray roots
and each droplet of the woman’s dew drew a picture
of deception

while her golden strands of hair
whipped the brittle bark
as if to damn the tree
for its usefulness after its death.

I don’t know about anyone else, but I find this poem to be very beautiful. The similie is just so beautiful – but, it isn’t empty afterall is it Kristalyn?

I see the blood – red blood – dripping between beautiful summer leaves; ugh! just such a beautiful image. (I know, I’m disturbed – what can I say). This poem has a much deeper meaning, I think, then is at first apparent. I’m going to print this beau up and take a look at it later.

– I simply love some of the poetry you write Kristalyn; and I’m sorry that I get so much enjoyment from your life’s expense.


That image of the man’s lips being sewen shut is still in my mind – reminds me a bit of Edward Sissor hands (Great Movie too).

Yes, it is empty–as hollow as the soul of the dead woman.

Whatever you say, never apologize to me for your happiness.