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Emily Johnson Ivory AngelI lay on the cracked, black sidewalk, Roots of dead trees that once lived with vigor strong enough to tear the cement, Separated the pieces long ago, but now sadly lament. It devours the heat from my very bones, Covered in night’s black smoke, Surrounded by stones. My tattered clothing, blowing in the wind, provides no protective layer, Unfeeling skin exposed to the fierce, white soldiers, Digging in deeper, But I can become no colder. A stray piece of hair brushes my numb, red lip, A frozen, ivory angel among the destruction, the squirrels nip. Frosty, white fingers entangled in the old withered gate, Of the graveyard, which has been crowded, as of late. The other hand draped across the curb and into the road, At an unnatural angle, The elbow mangled, Among cigarette butts, crushed Pepsi cans and ragged Stop & Shop bags, Remnants of old life which have now begun to erode. The wind blows and my frozen hand drags. An army of white flakes, like smoke, whisper across the street, In a formation so neat, Strength and persistence in the fleet, It is time for me to leave; my maker I must meet. [BACK TO TABLE OF CONTENTS, CLASS OF 2007 EDITION] |
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