A blur seesaw,
push-pull of teeth dulled by effort tearing through.
Pressure finger holding,
numbed, but focus tight to true.
Oily pungent ribbons streaming,
High pitched wail, a screaming sound-
Bits of flesh teaming,
piles upon the ground.
The effort of the pressure-
The focus of the task,
Burning, biting, delighting-
the terror tearing of the mask.
If by chance you've been there,
and have cut a sapient pole-
How many cut cords,
to warm winter's icy soul?
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3 comments:
Interesting.
glad u still poem
one or two 4 me
lost count onu
god bless us both, twice,thrice, fice?heh....
warmth 2 u this chilly season
God, its getting cold
w/luv..
always
once adored
pnk
Who?
Who?
Ah! Mythopoeia.
Loves child knew,
Warmth of love,
In fields of no right or wrong.
I'll meet you there.
Blessed? Yes!
Adventurous.
Who knows the fire in life-
Sweet jasmine of Summer's day.
Look who's back, with a vengance!!! It took me a few readings to completely absorb this one, and yea, I've been there myself!!! I rather liked your poetic reply, too!!!
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