Felled in unjust battle we cling to our last vestige of self
Rounded and ringed with rough outer skin
Like burned bread baked from gnarled wheat
Leaned upon one another in a display of camaraderie
So begins and ends our final day in this prison of dust and darkness.
Embraced by calloused, dry hands and heaved to parts unknown
Smaller hands aid the larger ones, carrying our twiggy children
A hole in the wall, dank, decrepit, dusky, filled with remains of fallen friends
Cruel dark iron twists and jabs and snarls, eager for our sturdy bodies
Between us lie white wisps of dried skin bearing twisting black markings.
Pungent, evil rain falls upon us in bursts, discoloring and debasing
From the darkness appears the reaper hooded in orange and yellow
He liberates the sickly white wisps, turning them to black curls
They shout in pain and excitement, exhaling fetid black clouds that choke us
We snap and pop and release our scent, unwilling to go out unnoticed.
At once the reaper surrounds us, we have no means of escape or rebuttal
Overwhelming tongues of heat work about us, devouring our solid flesh
No hope of escape, we glow brighter, hotter, determined to be remembered
We who once kissed clouds now sob in a terrestrial grave
Our corpses used to warm the leaves of beasts born beneath our limbs.
YOU ARE READING
The Works of Jeleth Cannan
PoesiaA collection of poems written by an in-universe author.
