Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mar 24
last night the wolves came.

there are plum bruises across the sky
and mountains burnt white with faded sun and there’s a path seared sharp into the pines that brightens as the sky dims.

there’s a nameless man beneath the gallows
squatting like a carrion-bird at a ****. a
smile splits his face like a wound
there’s blood like spilled wine, great grinning
pools of it, and the snows are thirsty to drink

and there’s a woman with a story like a knife
and nothing to lose, and she sharpens her words and follows the fraying path into the woods.

the wolves come.

they always do.
Liz Rossi
Written by
Liz Rossi  F/London
Please log in to view and add comments on poems