Blunt Instruments

Though you imagine yourself a ballerina,
deft and unimaginably light,
clever and subtle as you dance across the stage,

your lace and toile floating,
the light glimmering in your hair, angelic
and gossamer, faerie like,

able to appear and disappear at will,

The truth is something different.
You are the murderer in the library
with the blunt instrument of choice,

always in the shadows,
waiting your moment,
a murderer in the very darkness

you hide in.

 

About this poem.

Don’t read too much into this poem. I’ve wanted to write a poem around this photograph for a long time. Today, something finally came. But then again, we all probably have had someone like this in our lives at one time or another.

The picture was taken in an architectural salvage place in Albany, NY.

Tom