I don't know what's wrong with me...I really don't. This is a poem about either A) regret, B) loss, C) love turned sour, or D) some odd combination of the above. Oh well, please review and tell me A) how good/bad the poem was, B) if I should go drown myself or not, and C)...I don't have a C. Ack. Anyway, please enjoy!



The only thing I felt
was the touching of our
muffled hands,
grasped tightly
through clashing red mittens.

Red -
The color that separated
life and death.

To me, it was a symbol,
bloody, immortal, piercing.
But you,
you loved its vitality,
its beauty, its gleam.

Gleam -
The macabre fragments
or mortal secrets,

Staining the path you trod,
leaving sullen wishes
and mud spots,
splintered by
the patterns that shadows make.


I actually pieced this together from various particles of previous poems that never made it past the paper. Please review!