the poetry of Charles Fry

26 February 1997

hand-in-hand

Walking along one day I come to
a big wooden door.
It is carefully hidden but somehow I
found it anyway.
Of course I open it because it is a door
and I walk in.

Behind a stained glass window I
see your heart.
Weakly throbbing and almost pulsing
only there is not enough blood.
So the empty veins rise and fall in
angered contortions.

My hands caress the windowed pain in
anxious agony.
Silent tears blur my eyes and
stain the colored glass.
And for an instant looking through it
I see my heart dying next to yours.

Copyright © 1997 Charles Fry