Devouring Her Young

She cries without consolation,
Her hunger and her thirst
Are as dark stars,
Lapsing time,
Lemongrass.

As fit for kings,
Her serialization
Of definitive forms,
The conjuring of vast gases from nebulae;

My motion sickness concurs,
She is the medicinal equivalent of death.

And laughs at sparrows,
Derides an infant’s gaze,
Contorts the truth and trumpets
Murkwood’s mire and nostalgic breath.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s