He spoke in camouflage,
unseen by tyrants
above. Quickly,
he escapes in jet
black ink, could not risk
surrender, or he'll cut
his own tentacle,
propelling himself out.
Dismay though to his parents,
losing one arm for
the art of getting through,
hunted for his wayward
dance, he again dances
in the water, surveying
the pile of discarded shells
he collected from past conquests,
his seven remaining
limbs waving,
prepared to strike again,
or to retaliate in jet black ink.
YOU ARE READING
Live
PoetryOur hearts are brave as fire, minds gentle as earth, dreams are fluid as water, and our souls are as free as the wind. (Poetry and Prose) #2 of the end-live-begin trilogy.
