under the soil
not even that weight can stop
when this red desire is born again
is taking over the intimate belief in
letting of the blood as the air greets it
like healing from a few centuries of
intense cuts and scrapes, scars and lost tissue
nifty sneakiness and quick sharpened teeth
getting the most out of those close midnight hours
very unhappy to be back here again
among the people who never looked twice
made to see what is now
perhaps the last face they will ever see
if you are easily scared at the movies then
right here is not the ideal place to be

About jaybeasley2

a writer, a painter, a poet, a wordsmith
This entry was posted in poem, poems, poetry, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

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