shaken awake like an earthquake, unhand me, you heathen
this boy's skin is pale, his lips are salty and he's scrawny
he don't look like a man, so stand your guard, never let up
who are you? the question seemed foreign, what luck
this pissant had in being tossed from his ship, in the end, i am brawny
and i could squash this little man with but a wheat thin
YOU ARE READING
this fantastical world is too surreal (poetry #5)
Poetry"a rustle crackles underneath jackboots crossbow tight in hand she breathes one final breath before he pulls the trigger" you know the drill
