Over the dead body of a woman I am growing,
on her bones my roots are coiled
and from her disfigured heart
emerges a hard, vertical stalk.
From the coffin of an unborn child.
from its stomach shattered before the harvest
I rise up, tenacious, definitive,
brutal as a gravestone and on occasion sad
with the stony weariness of a funeral angel
who hides a tearless visage beneath his hands.
A long silent street.
I walk in blackness and I stumble and fall
and rise, and I walk blind, my feet
stepping on silent stones and dry leaves.
Someone behind me also stepping on stones, leaves: if I slow down, he slows;
if I run, he runs. I turn: nobody.
Everything dark and doorless.
Turning and turning among these corners
which lead forever to the street
where nobody waits for, nobody follows me,
where I pursue a man who stumbles
and rises and says when he sees me: nobody.
Eyes mad with fright, their lids torn off
That, helpless, they must watch the red-hot iron
Creep closer, closer, through the oozing blood
Each fiber tight with horror for the end,
The angry hiss as deep into each vital orb
The red-hot metal bores. The scream that issues
From the womb of agony herself.
Daily Prompt: Trick or Treat:
No tricks, just handing out tricked out poetic treats today.