It’s high time
I inspect my most recent woe.
A cosmic crime
and a bloodied doe.
The hunter,
adulthood,
took its gun
and crippled me.
Now I cower under the singeing sun.
Just the thought of staying inside
sounds like so much fun.
Inspector of woe.
Take your hunter's knife
and lunge it into this dying doe.
Remove the top layer of my skin,
and reveal the rot that has ransacked me;
reaching from my head to my toe.
What remains of me is a shambling skeleton.
Thrown to the whimpering wolves.
Wobbling down crowded streets,
worrying when the wind will whisk me away
to a less woke-washed world.
Comments
Post a Comment