Falling red drops..

I knock twice.

No reply.

Using my key, I enter the house.

My wife lies on the cot in the bedroom.

I go inside. A pool of red is dripping slowly to the floor from near her head.

My two year old sits nearby her, crying.

She sees me and says, “I broke mommy’s inkpot.”


Linked with Friday Flash55.


(July 30th, 2012)

Poetry & writing to me are to me, a breath of fresh air in a life that is sometimes covered by the smoke of sorrow or self doubt. They also become the sweets I share to celebrate when life offers me a reason to. But most of all, they are to me, my life. For each word I write is a piece of my heart, a thought that just had to find its way into the world.

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