To **** a man
is to flog his hide
if the hide were his brain
and the scars were
meandering
creases littering.
I have heard
the songed bird cry
when the notes were
both hopeful, unafraid
awake
and twittered.
And in the tired
slow gasping release
of moon upon night
overwhelmed by stars
like satellite
transmitters.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 3:22 PM UTC
To **** a man
is to flog his hide
if the hide were his brain
and the scars were
meandering
creases littering.
I have heard
the songed bird cry
when the notes were
both hopeful, unafraid
awake
and twittered.
And in the tired
slow gasping release
of moon upon night
overwhelmed by stars
like satellite
transmitters.
