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.