a poem

A din rush of voices,

attendant to myth and misery,

on confounding reason played,

and rattled by urges of rage.


Insight scorned, betrayed.

First one, then another,

yet another calling out,

behind doors heavy, floors chilled.


On winter’s urging, early frost.

Snow building on windows,

frames above soiled bedding,

warm, yellow and damp.


Shorn of mane, bones slipping,

creases of gray set deep, ripped at joints,

flesh bruised by monster’s breath,

and boy’s bloodied baseboards.

The End

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