Apr 2018
Were I to take the specked leather grips of the rust bellows,
I’d hiss venom from its jet nozzle
to melt the heart of every moon-razed mountainside,
and the air
would shiver and hum with the heat.
I’d hiss venom from its jet nozzle
to melt the heart of every moon-razed mountainside,
and the air
would shiver and hum with the heat.
Part of a collection of faintly macabre poems about the nightmarish and/or demonic.
