Poem Hunter


She stands with her back to the wind
and her shivering silken skin
a placid pale porcelain.
Her heavy hair in hues
of whites, silvers, and blues
reflects the face of the full grey moon
lovely it's loosed from the bounds of her braids
which laid- lightly fragrant.
Her empty eyes were as still
as the sleeping sea which starves upon the shore
And inside of those eyes
I drowned in my lies
I've swallowed once before.
They're as clear as a cold septembre night
where stars pollute a blackened sky
She blinks back black saline tears
and she wipes them dry.
Her lips moved in muffles
screams and statements
whispers and wild whimpers
and there was no way to escape them.
Blood-filled and blue
Pulsatory and paralyzed
in the way her mouth moved.
And she- stammering- said to me:
'We are everything...
Everything... and Nothing...'
Her voice was a void vibration settled on the breeze
ebbing outward unto meet me
a web entangled around me.
In angular repeating patterns and pictures
where moribund memories there linger
and slowly turn and fade away.
As i hold dearly to the memory
of what it was that you once said to me.
And only an innaccurate recollection
only a collection
of divers delusions
and corrupt constitutions
by which to measure our lies
and examine our insides.
She fell to the ground
with her heart in her hands-
empty echoes resound
from beyond the glass- falling grains of sand.
Counting all hours
and knowing all days
til the day of our deaths
when we all fall away.
With her last breath
a choking gasp in her chest
the rattle of rhythms
slow to their rest.
She screamed her depart
and fell to her knees
Her final remark:
'We are the dead...
The diseased...'

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Rudyard Kipling


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