#snoop
She scheduled her death for November 3.
Her orphan hope,
If hope could still be cradled,
Was for a thin sweep of snow on the ground,
Maybe a bit of a howl out of the northwest,
(A dog whistle wind, her son Duncan called it,)
and,
If these fertile and malignant aliens at outpost
In her pancreas and liver,
If they held gracious,
Then she would attempt one last respite
and
She'd stand alone at winter’s edge
Inside the pencil sketch of a forest,
The oak and barren elms asleep,
Their crooked witch’s fingers
Scratching upward, thin and still,
If she could endure long enough,
She’d tempt a final plea,
To overwhelm the Carciginians
and
She would wake these slumbering giants
With her soft envy,
She would beg the forest for its for secrets,
She would kneel and ask for the gift of a long nap,
Her wish to rise,
When all awake in spring again.
Of course in the end,
She bartered her desperation,,
Exchanged the ignominy of begging for her life,
For the crow’s caw,
The ivory of a full moon,
The damp step of a midnight in dew,
Her forest held her,
The wind whispered her name in soft repeat,
As she realized her eternity,
Her evermore,
Her head up, her heart insured.
Always this sheltered wood had counseled her,
She was careful to apologize,
Offer a traveler's grace,
It was her last goodbye.
Aug 12, 2016
Aug 12, 2016 at 10:51 PM UTC
He sits alone
A boy with a soft and quiet tone
Groups of people hurdle by
But not this boy, who lets out a silent cry
He is a bit of a loner
Always walks as if he is hiding a *****
Adolescent ****** hair
That's tattered and ware
Lays upon his face
Swaying with grace
He wants to be home
Watching **** on Google Chrome
But he cannot until three
When he runs home with glee
But for now he is stuck
As a pigeon in truck
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC