Hawkman
04-09-2018, 06:09 PM
The blood running down the street
In the gutters, seeping between the cobbles,
Stains my shoes.
The baskets are full,
Their contents defiantly biting
At each other's noses
I imagine claw-like fingers
Digging into scraggy throat-flesh
The lying mouth, gasping, and gnashing teeth.
The blades are speckled red,
The varnished wood is tarnished
And the crowds dispersed.
A ball of wool marks a vacant spot
And, at last, the Ravens
Have been tempted from the tower.
There is no bread
The butter is all gone
But still, the guns don't care.
In the gutters, seeping between the cobbles,
Stains my shoes.
The baskets are full,
Their contents defiantly biting
At each other's noses
I imagine claw-like fingers
Digging into scraggy throat-flesh
The lying mouth, gasping, and gnashing teeth.
The blades are speckled red,
The varnished wood is tarnished
And the crowds dispersed.
A ball of wool marks a vacant spot
And, at last, the Ravens
Have been tempted from the tower.
There is no bread
The butter is all gone
But still, the guns don't care.