Art is only valuable from the hand that feeds.
The juice of a pomegranate slice slides down his bloody chin,
Bitter is the juice, sugar is on the counter.
A dagger, a knife.
Bloody, bloody man.
I told him my thoughts and he crucified me,
then let my flayed flesh dry out.
I am the mongrel, he said, that the birds will tear apart, I am the rat among the men.
He suckles the poison that the river beds are drenched in.
He hangs his holy head and never allows his pencil
To touch the paper.
Decomposition started out as a thought,
An idea to be discarded.
Like a tobacco, he grinds me against his teeth, mortar and pestle,
He spits me out to rot.
Stasis
By HunterTheWriter
Stasis. 1. a period or state of inactivity or equilibrium. A collection of poetry written mid pandemic and mi... More