Slow Deaths

There is no sense in the silence,
in the volatile flux
of color and line,
wild and random,
in the delirium of starvation
that leaves only weakness
and exhaustion, a pretty picture,
that belies the magnificent decay.

About this poem

“Things are not always what they seem.” I remember being told.

True. Too true.

This poem, like many of my poems is both spiritual and personal. Spiritual in my reflections of holy week, as we move from Palm Sunday, to the Crucifixion, to the Resurrection. Personal as in, well, personal.

The picture is a recent oil painting, “Love’s Slow Death.”

Tom