Sweeter Flesh
lowly stalks of silent whispers.
waves of ivy slowly wither.
nothing to do, nothing to say.
being. slowly and silently. being
throughout the day,
the hungry wolves filled with fleas,
gloating to each other on their successful kills,
yet feasting on the rotted Flesh in shallow graves.
never to slow down,
always to run, up and down the mountains
where poisoned rivers plunge.
deep down into the hearts of the wolves
who feast on the rotted Flesh in the shallow graves.
even now, they rush through the day.
with the World infecting all like the tick.
drawing up the fragrant blood and making the whole
thick with the sickness that plagues this Earth.
slow down for once you hungry wolves,
the sweeter flesh is near.
should you only wait.
YOU ARE READING
Honey Drops and Pen Stains
PoetryTravesty, overcome by little else but life's muses; It's jokes. All of this is my original poetry, please do not steal
