Monday, October 19, 2020

The Mist

The hunter rebels,

Her caring hands soothe...


The prey 

Stops its prayers,

Written as poems,

On paper wrinkled

Cashew and indigo ink.


Her fragrance floats

Across my pages

From second-hand bookstores.


She's a metaphor as deep 

As a child reading poems

With rose-tinted glasses.


A mystery that envelops 

An undead village surrounded by mist

In the dark.


I stare. 

Stand.

Watch. 


Her lone survivor.

No comments: