A history of violence is a drawl
that’s scrawled and spoken.

Where hidden bodies poke fun
skyward, bunched among crunching leaves.

We scream at a moon that blinks
dumbfounded and erect in all our eyes.

A gull plucked by the ancient raven.
My white whiskers wriggle in the breeze.

Jump rigid and clawing into a burgeoning
day that may or may not kill you again!

I’m terrified of the light of day;
This cold world dangles life for play.