piehole

a desert without sand
lonely they must be

twisted burning crust of
the thing they used to be

seething tongues of blood
squeaks that cut like briars

tortured by themselves
our gnashing little liars

it’s only love they need
a bucket want of fill

caress them with
a rusted blade

head thumping
down the hill

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s