voracious
parasitic ooze envelops
something dead and defenseless,
slowly filling lungs,
calcifying in the ears, nose.
the tomb locks limbs,
arrests movement and expression.
solid.
the insatiable ore devours then desires
more. more but is patient.
satisfied for now.
over time calculates.
after the last digit is consumed
it reaches out
into darkness it searches,
grows hungry teeth
every direction
desiring more
to taste.
Epic on a Waterspout
It was a cold, dreary day.
The clouds hung low in the sky
Heavy and dark with precipitation.
A tiny, lone arachnid made her way home.
As she began her climb up the cold metal pipe
A single bead of water flew past her.
Multiple lenses flashed toward the ground,
Watched as more and more drops pounded the cement.
With a strobe of lightening the sky let loose.
A torrent of rain showered down on the petite heroin
As she was pulled down with the mini monsoon.
She saw the whole 12 days of her life flash before her 8 eyes.
With a splash she found herself in an inch deep lake,
Barely able to stay afloat.
She made her way to the safety of an old tin can.
In time the rain subsided,
And the intrepid little bug made her way back
To the lofty column.
As the sun reemerged and evaporated the residual liquid
The diminutive creepy-crawly begrudgingly resumed her trip
Harvest
They are collected once a year,
The victims of ritual sacrifice.
They are poked, stabbed and gutted.
Ripped apart from the inside,
Their innards splattered thoughtlessly-
Mutilated, violated.
Pieces cut away,
Often devoured.
Transformed into empty lifeless faces,
Menacing, sneering.
Eyes burning in fixed stares.
Fiery, but without passion.
They can never be changed back.
Altered forever, until death,
A slow, rotting, decomposing end.
Shriveling flesh caves in
As a molding, putrid stench
Offends the noses of their captors.
No sympathy, no memory,
They are discarded, forgotten.
The fate of their every generation.
No comments:
Post a Comment