October 29, 2008

As it Became

As it Became

As a scored silver bulb

Proud and Pitted

Run through with cracks

All traumas depleted

More chaste than chilled.

Still, and yet somehow smooth –


As a sapling, leaking white

Secreting its alabaster tears.

Sepulchral in its frailty

Damaged and damned.

Weeping, and yet somehow futile –

Willingly abandoned to the blaze

Flaccid and somehow wasted –


As the browning straw

As the wilting grass

As the frothing suffocating river

Flowing fetid,

Stagnant and sluggish.

And yet somehow clear –


As the soot-black plumes

Fraught with filth,

Wings snapped back

Content with contempt

That gloating gaze

Eyes cruel and calid

Set deep, surveying all

Relishing the remains.


Why doesn’t she stop?

Legs buckled beneath her,

Feet splayed out, unnatural

Reaping the repellent

Straining to succeed

Never stopping.

And yet –

Why should she?

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