Untitled 8
Naked, soul served out
on the Ax murder’s lawn
pulsating in death’s hesitation.
Cracked at the crevasses
visions of red
engulf the air
waiting, waiting
waiting for a rush of purple
grey madness to terminate
the perplexing edge of time.
I am at my soul’s wits end
hoping to grasp a very
smooth corner of the next ride
that passes hastily by me.
Surrender, surrender
surrender to the pensiveness
of the wait.
Surrender . . . the dirt wind shiver
to me
surrender.
I shake
wait
afraid
wait.
Copyright © Carol Marie Webster | Year Posted 2007
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