Funk-flattened by that man,
the one who stole her whole,
heart, soul… grassy knoll.
Blue, blank, busted,
burnt by a formerly formidable passion
that now passes for bitter brittleness.
Lost love takes the shape of
a long tall martini, in her limp hands,
as she holds up her part of the bar,
awaiting her next mistake.
© 2012 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil
For Trifecta, use the word “blue” in a 33-333 poem as an adjective meaning melancholy… Been there, done him…
Also at my poetic watering hole, Poets United. Peace, Amy