Thawed socks; with frozen esophagus,
the plague which won the war.

In the interim,
between breasts;
billfold in hand,
clutched.

A mercenary score
of, “gobble, gobble, gobble,”
tread so lightly
that her footsteps
could contain the plague
and I would still welcome her
with open arms.

A dove,
blasted with 9mm
a cage too ordinary,

“Peace, nay, I bring you the sword.”

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *