Monday, 12 June 2017

day 29

Arise the sun and I,
from our liquorice tombs
our sweet respite;
our black wombs.

His conflagrant iris
matches mine own,
ablaze with ire
my own bleary eyes.

My morning grooming ritual
of trimming down the bristles
which appear upon my mien

tell a tale of holding back
my villainous animalism
after week
only for it to creep
every dawn upon my cheek.

Ahead, on the plane of the mirror
a vulture gawks back at me
his shimmering black beak
made for preying on the weak,


I long to shatter the image,
the mirror
and the bones in my fist, too.

But all I do
is glare back at the vulture
and curse it through and through.

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