see the snake bite necrosis
see the setting sun draw needles through paper thin skin
tight as a drum
that has been beaten empty
save for the scratchings of scarabs
the dusty desert acacia veins
scour the sky
and bristle against your thirst
with their spines
want not? waste
i am someone elses shoe
my death creeps from two weepy perforations
just above my heel
where the sand leaks out
hissing indifference
i am an impaled bird
and life is my injury
1 comment:
This is poetry....
Dad
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