deepundergroundpoetry.com

Becoming Death

Mother was too pale to cough black,
Father became the house,
a face of weathered granite
melded with the stones,
kept crooked by the constant wind
raging off the moors.
 
When I look to the fields
the scarecrow sees me,
he's been whispering.
When the weathervane turns
his snakes hiss across the crops,
I donít want to listen anymore
but the ground connects us.
 
I watch the walls at night,
my back to the flames,
creatures come to dance behind me.
He told me not to turn
so I watch a life of shadows
flying with the sun and rain,
straining to see the subtleties.
 
He's moving closer to the house,
I call the children in from the washing line
they've been out all day
flapping like larks on the breeze.
I hold them to my cheek smell their folded hair.
 
He's outside the window now,
I havenít moved for days.
The house growls as the wind changes direction
and he's sitting at my table,
insects sprawling from his outstretched hands.
 
It only takes a touch.
 
Iím in the top field
listening for two travelers
as they cross the moors,
one is very weak so I tell him
he won't make the journey.
 
Then I move a little closer,
I know he can hear me.
Razzerleaf
Written by Razzerleaf
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 2 reading list entries 1
comments 5 reads 71
butters
Commenting Preference: 
The author encourages honest critique.

Latest Forum Discussions
SPEAKEASY
Today 3:50am by AspergerPoet56
COMPETITIONS
Today 3:35am by EdibleWords
SPEAKEASY
Today 2:14am by EdibleWords
SUGGESTIONS
Today 00:25am by Ahavati
POETRY
18th November 2019 11:50pm by EdibleWords