Friday, November 14, 2014

Latest Poem


For the last year
I've eaten nothing
but cinders for breakfast.
Burnt words piled on plates,
not a lick of rain
to sooth my cracked tongue.

creatures go on bleating 
and bleating
while the sun above
never ceases its staring.
It can't stop seeing
what it's seen.

My hands, a tattoo of ash,
fold and rise
as if to beg,
but my brittle heart 
has hardened
and I cut
the nearest throat,
for the quenching,
not caring 
that it's blood,
not caring
whose it is.


Poem written 11/2014
Photographer unknown