| war |
his grace is a knife,
a clean cut through the hearts of men,
a gentle laugh that eases unseemingly
to a blistering hiss
breath gentle though a bloody mouth,
arms laden with the fruit of war
| death |
her embrace is a sagely caress,
a truthful beacon to a destination far,
auburn and gold wither, slowly falling
to the dying earth below
exhaling fumes, smoke and ash
crumbling, a phoenix flame
| famine |
her eyes are empty, a void
hollow, filled with want and greed,
icy lashes drop a hypothermic frost,
to sweep crops away in droves
dancing a swan song, dressed white,
heart heavy for the bodies that fall
| pestilence |
his body is a weapon,
honed by suffering, by starvation
festering wounds spill toxic seeds
to seed a famine, a curse upon land
tearing blooms from soft earth
a crown of what could have been
YOU ARE READING
The Witching Hour
Poetrypoetry about the wicked and the witchy || featured by WP Poetry on Oddities Unknown || #183 in poem (11/3/18)
