deepundergroundpoetry.com

xviii: evocation

It is not prophecy -
this thing, scarlet and viscus
slithering in the sand at my feet.
It spewed wetly from my gaping grin -
a sad monument to the years.

In the conceit of the rising sun,
my teeth became redundant.
(I alone am at fault)
 

... Can a pyre built for a self burn rage enough
burn wild enough
burn spite enough
To slough off the flesh, the meat,
the contempt, the weeds?

Leaving my bones free to cast an offering to the stars
mirrored and diffused softly into the waves -
the breaking crest a singular invitation to
my unrelenting yearning
for that place of mythic transition.
 

Mere survival will not suffice this time.
Written by Feral
Published
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