My knees excavate
valleys
against weeping flames. I ignore
//
the suffering begging me to return
to frigid air and inhale
smoke as deeply as my brittle
//
body will allow, if only to quell
the fire's wail.
The surrounding forest drenches
//
me in a twilight pregnant
with stories only
I can tell. Red flames ooze
//
through each hidden crevice, like
ghosts and demons
haunting me. I feel each monster
//
scream, like bone spurs spurring
supple cartilage
while my joints dredge deeper
//
against the blaze. I do not weep.
I merely permit
my lungs to exhale white fog —
//
to savor the warmth
seeping
through broken teeth, ash coating
//
papillae like crushed medicine
easing
me of the pain.
About the Creator
Corvus
Corvus is a kaleidoscope of Gothic word-craft, stuck somewhere within the hurricanes of prose and poetry and wrung out on each page. Find more fragments of the love letter on their website, corvuslove.
Political Thirty-Three
Inevitable? A woman named Good is lost. Unforgivable. * Note: I don't think that I have to explain this one to anyone noting recent news, but I have included a video link below for future generations who can still feel empathy and compassion for someone who got caught up in history. And I was just too angry to say more with this piece.
By Kendall Defoe 3 days ago in Poets
Let's Don't Do This
"I just can't do this anymore..." "Do what?" What can't you do? Put gas in your own car? I swear to God you make me take care of everything, don't you? You know I'm on my way to work right now but that never stops you from bothering me, does it?"
By Shirley Belk6 days ago in Fiction
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