Landscapes of the Mind - Poems

The Flea

Oh, to be a flea -

to dig myself under the shins

of liars and abusers, and eat their blood away,

slowly. Then, to leave them

fallen on their sides and with no dignity,

anemic and pale, to die -

and I would escape then, full and happy.

Red as a sunset inside, pleased with myself -

but in reality, I guess I am too small

to suck dry the paps of evil,

after all.