Beast of Burden
Little wayward Beast
Pressed
Belly-up, to a nettled caustic sky
Barbed and true, the thorn is poised
Above the throat, between your eyes.
Ridged spine, dirt dug divots.
Bone-etched marks, impressive once
No more, no More
Maw stretched and yawning,
a prickled tongue lolling,
catching dew-dropped breaths
between white petaled poison
The rays are blinding
The fruit of your labor has shriveled,
dead.
Little wayward Beast
Is the honeyed liquid sun on your chest
The feathered grass at your back
Truly worth the torpid descent
Into the Gallows?
YOU ARE READING
Poetry & Flash Fiction Collection
PoesiaA collection of stories/works/poetry that I will shove into one book. Usually for contest entries
