Mountain ranges of ribs line rows upon a rising and receding back
A tally of every last linearity their bearer lacks
Collapsing inwards and ridged revelations of hair-line cracks
Polarising the punch predation packs
And finally the focused force of fury splits fractures into fragments
At the righteous refusal to ever repent
A myriad of protests mumbled without being meant
Blood crystallising in prisms, red iridescent
Cavernous wounds that confuse contradiction
Should skin line the outside of a work of fiction?
Or beneath the surface with wet blood and no friction
The question is answered as feathers sprout
Crawling like larvae from the inside out
Dissolving any delusions of doubt
Of what this destruction was really about
Wings erupt from the wounds and we take the air
Knowing terrible beauty can spring from any nightmare
***
Haha, it's been a hell of a day, so I hope you enjoyed even what turned out as a very short poem.
Destruction can be beautiful, but beauty isn't necessary positive.
Sleep well.
Alex xxx
YOU ARE READING
Under My Sofa
PoetryWhen I was little I wrote in the space under my sofa. Now I write on top of it. That's not poetic. I'm just too big to fit underneath anymore.
