Poetic Endeavours Are Not Meant To Cure Us. Part 6-Howls.
I hear howling wolves growling in the gutter.
Rivers of torn flesh pour forth from the gates of sin.
Philanthropists boast with a nasal mutter.
Subliminal shrieks create a rising din.
I sit rigid in suspended animation.
Skin pulled apart by great demonic wolves.
A punishment I shall soon double in revenge.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
