There's a little less fight in her today.
There's a little less light in her.
She's on the brink of destruction.
A demise of her own creation.
She smiles at the pain.
She laughs at the torment.
She likes the taste of blood.
She dances with every wound.
No one gets out alive.
They're all willing to die trying.
Until their last breath is gone.
They will fight until the bitter end.
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His Haibun
He does not like poetry; I write it anyway and do not tell him. It's true his face is not a poet's face. It is round and open, youthful; too apt to be compared to the sun. His nose is neat. It is impossible to imagine him smoking a cigarette, terse, full of cheekbones and tension. His warmth burns my fingertips. I am here for his fascinating body, the haphazard freckles I touch one by one; he is here for my eyes, just my eyes. A sunbeam sneaks through the curtains and pierces us both, sizzling the spices of his skin. I inhale and wrap myself in him. He kisses my eyes.
By TheSpinstress6 days ago in Poets
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