Molten Poetry

Let it burn.

Retreat, retreat,
into the wood line
at the edge
of the place
where all of
the people meet.

The lurker’s banquet
awaits, for the
least of the beasts
that joined me
in the woods
to hide our faces
from the unceasing
demands of these
people-creatures.

We run,
west to east,
in hopes of seeing
the sunrise, fleeting,
above the trees
where we wait
to eat, at last,

the loneliest feast.


©️ 2018.

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