by July 6, 2024 0 comments

Won’t be long now — the beckon
of black. Me, prey, dusk
on the prowl. Late sun gutted,
bleeding out. Like a candle —
flame flatlined, flicker snuffed.
The wax whacked, dripped,
pooled. Wick remains turned
to ash. Rubbed out,
gone cool. Even my spit
accepts droop, hangs back,
content to be drool.

editors note:

A case where it’s better to swallow than spit. – mh clay

Leave a Reply