Monday, January 20, 2014

View from...

...a dead tree

Skeletal faced under
A black laced veil
Billowing in the
Breeze of fetid breath
Like a bad batch
Belched from some
Bootlegged still
Resolute on the path
Of stones & alone an
Ancient crone caws
For its pound of
Flesh clawed from
The dirt with blue
Veined hands &
Rusted nails she
Stares into the maw
Of an unseasoned
Grave & faintly
Heard to mutter

‘So long you son of
a bitch.’

& clumsily turns to
Leave before tears
Turn her memories
To muck & her
Resolve to ruin


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