Thread: The Fist

He is so mortified,
her words ringing around his skull.
These fingers curl,
the mace of knuckles strike,
thudding on the wall
and smarting red return
to tears.

He cannot understand
why they stole her from him.
He loved
in his wild, unquenchable way,
with harsh and gentle words
in dissonance with
her years.

The wine is all he needs,
consoling all the woes
and throes of madness
with sleep or the red rage,
spouting from red stained lips
or shattered glass where
his hand tore.

He is so lost,
but how to make it right?
He cannot bear to learn
what they so long longed to teach.
Strike away the words,
with hands shaped to hold
and love.

You use some brilliant metaphors here. I love:

These fingers curl,
the mace of knuckles strike,

Mace of knuckles is a wonderfully imaginative way to describe a fist as a weapon.

A suggestion I would make is the use of the word 'red' in the third stanza.

with sleep or the red rage,
spouting from redstained lips

I'm not sure if the repetition is deliberate or not, but it did distract me (it might not be the same for others, but you can never be too sure with a poem).

Another very good poem, Crowley. Looks like you're on a roll!

Thanks for the quick response. I expect this will seem a little unrefined as i just wrote and posted it in a fit of inspiration. The repeated red was supposed to show the red of the wine, anger and blood on shattered glass the colour of rage in all it's forms but i probably did over do it a bit.