You are dead now, poor thing.
The snag of hunger was too much for you,
Tight little ball of life
Paused.
All outstretched.
Your brightness withdraws,
An abandonment to decay.
No gentle oblivion of the earth awaits,
Just the sound of bones
Atop a concrete grave
And an epitaph of distaste
From the passers by.
Poem by Helen Woodroof, Illustration by myself
No comments:
Post a Comment