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The Cottonmouth King I, The Cottonmouth King creep out from under my rock; I penetrate the depth of your soul Blood runs on damp streets claiming another life Drama tastes of bitter swallows, escaping from guillotine’s wrath, staining your Sunday best, pressed and altered to fit within my diary I sing of how you were living… and soon about your death And as that book begins, blank sheets reach grasping for each of your helpless breaths beyond every ordained happiness, awaiting inked fallacies and whims in my words, I spew lies and claim them to be truth… And lo before this congregation I pledge only truth, for dishonest cretins carry the weight of every living being pushed to the recess of thoughts if it is chosen to disagree, then it can not be… breath amongst death Smiles where hatred awakens from the deepest sleep, yawning democracy claims its fortunes in large swaths, taking land and dreams in between fence lines and rock face walls surrounding gardens, plentiful, ripe with flavor for my picking I stand as the new ruler, squaring off with witnesses who cry foul, who slander my truth amidst thankless gestures not seen, not heard, not felt coming from shadows, long and low, moving swiftly, silently between unsuspecting feet, tethering ankles, laughing at the falling, finding great joy in the pain sustained, great joy…and it shall be For be it known to all, this power shall fill my basket with bread, with apples and pears, and I shall eat my fill while you look on, feeling the emptiness carve streams in your stomachs, caverns of doubt will open and you will believe…you will believe No choice will be given, for this land, once fruitful and teeming with harvest has dried up, parched, as the rains find solace in another area, far west of this eastern capital, stands barren, desolate, depleted except for a small opening beneath a smooth stone, a hole in the earth, where I patiently wait in silence for the return of my truth Warnings posted will weather and rot in time, falling to the deserted sands, leaving nothing but a post and nails, heads rusted off, dripping the wood, slithering along insect trails, curving to dust, weeping of a beginning to a another book, another chapter, another page which remains blank…for now For you see…I have yet to write it, I am the Cottonmouth King 6/26/17 For the “Create a character” poetry contest Sponsored by Cecelia Hopkins-Drewer
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