The hazed horizon simmers in broiling sunlight
marked by a crimson octagon that signals pause.
Oracular structures jag across a runny orange sun.
This screaming hawk, it circles like death above me, cawing,
screaming, shrieking psychotically for speed. Incessant, insane:
“Drive!” she says, “Drive, Drive!”
Foul demon! Accursed fertile nymph!
There is comfort here, beyond gates of wood and steel,
nestled delicately on a supple seat awash in cool breezes.
Of what gain, pray, is this final frontier?
Entertain these: safety and well being.
Do not forget the honor in modesty.
The cackling hawk hears none of this.
Its seething rage boils over and its talons sink deep.
The pain is overwhelming and anger spits fire deep within.
Four steps, fast and terrified, this shattered body pushes
onward. It stumbled broken, but determined,
the mind sharpens and prepares itself new contest.
No comments:
Post a Comment