The dry skin of Dalla's toes,
Full of cracks where sands bellowed.
Rubbed against rough concrete,
Blood painted, so rigid.
Lines drawn, at right and left,
Hairs bowed down their heads,
As blood washed them laid.
It quenched the cracks,
That thirsted for love.
Like veins in greed,
Sprouting like reed.
Dalla felt no pain...
Crumbling dirt in her toes,
Blood turned dirt in mud.
Cold, emotionless Dalla.
Roughness turned her cold,
Roughness pulled her down,
Poor Dalla... Still brushing her toes.
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Postcripts
Poetry"When power leads man toward arrogance, poetry reminds him of his limitations. When power narrows the area of man's concern, poetry reminds him of the richness and diversity of existence. When power corrupts, poetry cleanses." ...
