Skip to main content

A Serpent


I walked along a pearl river,
I strolled across the onyx night,
My tail slither.
I stalked between the thickening trees,
I breezed across the open fields,
Mind-poisoning disease.

I heard the cries.
I felt the boiling air.
I smelled the fire.
I tasted the bitter hate.

I saw her neighbors cast her onto the pyre.
She screamed out to me as her body seared.
I was drawn in to the ambrosial tempers their primitive natures revealed.
She convoked me to make her mark.
Drawn closer to the shimmering heat, she welcomed me.
These heathens' malevolence brought out by the dark.

And so,
They heard their babes cease their lungs,
My curse wrapped tightly 'round them.
They smelled my gift of dead rats in the water.
They felt their blood freeze in their bodies, as I released them of their hot-headed hate.
They tasted the blood as it came forth from their lips' last empty prayer.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Awe

I looked up at the sky this morning. I drive out just as the sun comes up, lighting up the buttery bottoms of clouds.  I was awed.  Awe is such a rare feeling, one that should be held onto and treasured. Awe and wonder shed years off the soul, my youthful sparkling eyes look up to the sky, breathless.  When I saw you for the first time,  you didn’t smile.  I could only be disappointed.  I was in awe as I got to see you lift your lips and laugh for the first time.  My awe and wonder as it shed years off of your soul, our youthful sparkling eyes look at each other, even to our last elderly breath. 
1 comment
Read more

The State of a Rose

The affliction of a rose is of its hue, A deep disgusting red like blood without breath. Oh how it makes a crimson wreck of an amorous nose, A rose. This its clandestine depth: A rose is a rose is a rose And both the adder beneath it. How now is the charming connotation so bequeathed it? Sickness falls once bit upon, It matters not the circumstance thereon. Imbibes of blood, That allergy does, And so leeches this lively dye. Sneeze away this viral pollen, Bleed no more and so it dies. But dogma decrees that so shall it be A pis aller to let decay this eros. Yet, Is there balm in Gilead? As the timelessly exalted syntagma goes? Do these poets sing certitude or chicanery, That there are blessings to be had? So they repeat duet and say, That roses can be sated, That blood set free might return to be ours forever. Did they glimpse the incompatibility of fact and fancy? That rooted roses can be boundless wellsprings, Never to overflow with blooming red recip
Post a Comment
Read more

Spring Again

Touching this paper again, reminds me of all the things I’ve done. When I go to bed at night, I still feel...empty. Anger, passion, emotions, all are fleeting. The only thing I’m left with is this quiet hollowness. An indifference that can’t seem to sit straight. It sits slumped, on its seat, but not touching his desk. His head is hung, staring off somewhere past his feet. Sometimes I wonder if it really matters if I close my eyes when I lay to rest. Open or closed, I don’t seem to get real sleep anyway. I can’t even remember my dreams anymore; my dreams make it worth going to bed. As I lay here I can feel the cuts on my feet. I often go out by my favorite tree, but I don’t bother with shoes. My lemon tree has thorns. I don’t mind the cuts on my feet, I hardly feel pain anymore. It’s the beginning of spring, and despite this, I don’t feel the joy and hope that follows this season.  The only hope I’ve felt caught in my throat when I saw all the butterflies and dragonflies o
Post a Comment
Read more