Pain and expression whenever ink splatters,
I can feel the forked serpents in my belly
twisting and tendrilling into one.
In the air slowly seeping,
as black smoke from the
smouldering remains
of all the paper-thin trees
I killed with my handwritten poetry.
If I open my mouth to speak,
forked tongues will fly out
to kiss the descending flames
upon graveyard plains of doomed foliage.
On that fateful night from the bonfire,
monsters sprung free.