Manic
Breath stolen breeds sharpness
Borne backward into infantile shrieks
The spinstress of sinew waits bated
For abhorrent heat
Of combustive, collapsive
Crossfire from echoing throat
Or burnt-bridge lungs
A visceral nymph thoughtlessly thieves
On Benedict tongue
Thrashing in maddened pace
Too shrill a manifesto
Skeletal soldiers charge
A red hill
Unsteady, uneven, not ready
Frenzy, not frolic
I am not a goddess
There is something to fear
I am something, I fear
Copyright © Chelsea Westerfield | Year Posted 2013
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