Andrew Foreman Poet Prose

My Searing Thoughts

I watched a man,
once, far away, long ago,
nameless, like a grain of sand,
in that humid, fertile land,
moustache, dark skin,
rough hands full,
of bleating flesh,
rough steel,
piercing the side,
of pink skin hidden,
under dirty wool.
Now, crimson stained,
a kick,
a bleat,
then releasing breath.
How like their pain,
that piercing moment,
that bleating,
the end,
that never ends.
Kicking on the blade,
of my traitor's mind.
Soon to turn on the rusted spit,
charring my soul,
turned by my hand.
I envy that goat,
feeling steel only once.
While I turn,
turn,
turn over flames,
of my searing thoughts.

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