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caroline-gracePoems
From the side of the hill my sight captures flat pasture, part orchard, part garden. A full moon illuminates my ready-trotted route glistening with mud. At its end, a rolled hollow, a lit tree- bed and breakfast. This is what I live for, how I survive. I don't ask for much, ignorant to what's on the other side. I know my limits. Further up the slope there are more mouths, dug out, living in brambles, a natural, comfortable camouflage- a bed of roses. When I sleep, in the blink of an eye you vanish, dreams exploding blood and gore to which I once bore witness. I try to ignore the intrusion. What goes on in daylight belongs to you. How can you live in Paradise with death on your side? The bulk of me shudders to think! Whatever happened to passion? You're pleased as a starved flea finding a host. Everything has its predator- yours is your own! Sniffing the air, I smell your cold heart raw and pumping, seeking a pastime to glitter your world at our expense. Eat what you've already murdered, bought, hoarded in your larder! You don't need another corpse on your conscience. If you lived simply by instinct, what would you do?
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Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
Wild Thing
From the side of the hill my sight captures flat pasture, part orchard, part garden. A full moon illuminates my ready-trotted route glistening with mud. At its end, a rolled hollow, a lit tree- bed and breakfast. This is what I live for, how I survive. I don't ask for much, ignorant to what's on the other side. I know my limits. Further up the slope there are more mouths, dug out, living in brambles, a natural, comfortable camouflage- a bed of roses. When I sleep, in the blink of an eye you vanish, dreams exploding blood and gore to which I once bore witness. I try to ignore the intrusion. What goes on in daylight belongs to you. How can you live in Paradise with death on your side? The bulk of me shudders to think! Whatever happened to passion? You're pleased as a starved flea finding a host. Everything has its predator- yours is your own! Sniffing the air, I smell your cold heart raw and pumping, seeking a pastime to glitter your world at our expense. Eat what you've already murdered, bought, hoarded in your larder! You don't need another corpse on your conscience. If you lived simply by instinct, what would you do?
Written by
caroline-grace
English
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
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