Pallid, like dried paint.
I sat and waited but they never came...
Those, what'ya call'em...
Raising you up, to feed, like a chick
grasping at the ragged worm, torn,
tiny flecks of gore; and earth.
Dark soil always staining the
nail beds. Rust in the joints.
But it isn't the chick that feeds, no.
It's them, shadows shrouding fate,
talons dragging on the oak of time.
Digging a long line that becomes a trench.
This time they didn't come.
And so the blood pumps, fast, in bursts -
but doesn't reach all the ports.
And so, a pallid masochist waiting to be fed, sits and waits, only,
his soul wriggling, like the worm
YOU ARE READING
Confusion in Underground Clouds
PoetryThis is a collection of assorted poems, detailing one consciousness extending and swirling into another, and another, and another.
