she was born in august
an empty month, summer fleeting with the
moon.
she thought blood was prettier splattered on the stained-
glass that was his church,
but her god never came to claim the surrender:
the white flag that no longer meant stringent tidings
but the spaces between broken virgin blotches of red.
the heat that slept sticky on the edges of skin
bent under the cold crisp scalpel wind,
she was born in august
at the juncture of indulgence
and the estranged.
Points:
Time spent:
Canary word: Present
Possible AI signals:
Original Text:
Are you sure you want to delete this comment? This cannot be undone.
Mark this comment as a review? Points will be awarded to the poster.
Your comment was posted, but it wasn’t long enough to count as a review. Reviews need about four complete sentences (at least 250 characters). Try writing another review that explains your thoughts in more detail — the author will appreciate it, and you’ll earn points for it.
125,021 Literary Works • 672,740 Reviews
Very good, except:
"the white flag that no longer meant stringent tidings" is basically a bit of nonsense.
i loved this poem, but the repetition of "she was born in august" didn't have much as effect as it was meant to have because he poem was so short. the images were beautiful, but i would've loved more. it also would've helped me understand it better. i didn't get the title, by the way.
on a much better note, this aboslutely BLEW ME AWAY:
so good job. =]