Category: Prose


What real death is that
if you can’t taste it twice?

Cut it harshly
just as if father yelled
on those rarer moments,
his bones arching legs.

why die for pride?

cutting off heads must be very satisfying,
almost as fingers tapping into madness
dreamt upon red-lands, the moon blinded
by the osprey; but minds wait in guilt
whilst flowers turn to wounds

she takes.

if shyness shamed
the oceans slaughting
a bag of bones, it lain a stentorian love
if shyness shamed
she recalls in deathly naught the beguile
of roses, adulterated by her fingers,
written in verses yet morose