U nderneath the vines
M urdered in the night
P utrid, rotting flesh. The
K nife lay on the ground, not so
I nnocently,
N estled among the gore.
C arried out of the garden
A rranged around a flame
R ipped and torn
V iciously carved
I nto
N ightmarish,
G hastly, grinning faces.
- Roberta Moore and Mary-Margaret Greene
No comments:
Post a Comment