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A somewhat gory poem that I wrote while waiting for mission briefs a few Sundays ago:
What cheer my love?
Does Death's pale finger stroke your trembling cheek?
Is the mist that swirls what causes you to pause?
Or is it the axe buried in your chest?
What news my love?
Is that bone that juts from where your lip once was?
The cartilage of your nose is gleaming white,
Matching the bone-hard ground and bleached grass.
Why so slow my love?
Is your skipping step marred by your dismembered legs?
Do the trailing vultures make you fear,
For the guts that spill from your abdomen?
Why no voice my love?
Do the buzzing flies choke you when you breathe?
Is the blood congealing in your throat?
At least the wind whistles cheerfully through your ribcage...
What cheer my love?
Does Death's pale finger stroke your trembling cheek?
Is the mist that swirls what causes you to pause?
Or is it the axe buried in your chest?
What news my love?
Is that bone that juts from where your lip once was?
The cartilage of your nose is gleaming white,
Matching the bone-hard ground and bleached grass.
Why so slow my love?
Is your skipping step marred by your dismembered legs?
Do the trailing vultures make you fear,
For the guts that spill from your abdomen?
Why no voice my love?
Do the buzzing flies choke you when you breathe?
Is the blood congealing in your throat?
At least the wind whistles cheerfully through your ribcage...
.
