Squashed a leaf between his fingers, plant blood smeared into his stiffened tips. Hands under the tap, the ivory sink that he had expected to turn sage, seethed in charcoal. Might have tipped over a broken ink bottle. Climbing through the bedsheets, his wet hands stained the berth. He lay in the dampness, eyelids stuck to the back of his sockets. Cold sweat counted each column up his spine, the moisture had reached his eyes.
Like wet cloth on a flame,
A breath too late, a beast to tame
Buried under his fingernails, earth turned to ash
Charcoal tears frozen upon his lash
The blood felt heavy, a lump in his veins
Squashed a pomegranate grain, the kind that stains
Tried lifting a finger, it crumbled under its weight
It wasn’t the damp in the air,
It was the lead in his veins.
No comments:
Post a Comment