Metamorphosis
Craving desperation in the yellow skied morning,
Mockingbird laughed as the coyotes do –
a childlike cry, dancing about prey in fright.
Oh, Lord Black Rabbit, the tea we've served has gone quite cold,
solidifying into paper thin husks.
Peeling back the skin of our cocoon, parasitic wasps burst forth.
Gnarled like old wood, the man's flesh contorts and turns to stone.
When we demanded that the dogs shall not lie,
they suffered obedience. Collar a noose,
they hang themselves from the nearest tree.
Ringing, ringing, the phone is swinging, swinging, off the hook by its cord.
Picking it up, the child cried, "Hurry, hurry!"
We're fools stung by our own stingers.
For when we try to make ourselves anew,
we only poison what we once knew.
YOU ARE READING
The Dragon Became a Modern Poetaster
PoetryPoetry is a dance of words, a guise of flesh, and a reprise of thought. The myths of old are forgotten on modern tongues. Such adventurous spirits seek new vessels - fresh words to don and call their own. We shall write them home, you and I. Let the...
