Blood trickled down her leg,
As tears mixed with the barren earth.
I try to cover up the wound
To stop the flowing crimson
But I am pushed away
"I can get it."
Wiping away the crystal drops
She stands wobbly to her feet
An begins limping her way back
Leaving behind skin and a stain.
I pick up her glasses
Scuffed with a thin layer of dirt
Covering up the fresh crack.
I follow behind
Her pace isn't quick.
She's getting tired
Dragging her foot leaving
A red streak in her wake.
I grab her arm
And sling it around my shoulder
For the rest of the way
I carried her home.
I Don't often try my hand at poetry, but now seemed as good of time as any. I enjoyed Diaz's style of prose in that it felt more like prose than poetry and I prefer that. It gives a sense of genuine emotion to the work that some poetry I feel lacks.
