It was Caesarean.
Fitting.
Twenty-three stabs to the skin for undermining the body politic.
Translucent skin like paper tigers.
Blue veins peek through,
But you cannot touch.
I am a jaundiced, yellowed page,
Easily torn.
Eager ears hark
Not for the mandrake’s cry.
Cold code blues echo.
Dreams of baby’s breath and mothers' milk,
Pressed against the breast, liquid nourishment
Like the pallor in her cheeks.
Rhythms pump
Erra
tic,
toc,
&
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
.
.
.
Beats — apart
,
The silence deafens
All defences.
Space and time dilation
As her eyes awaken.
About the Creator
E.K. Daniels
Writer, watercolorist, and regular at the restaurant at the end of the universe. Twitter @inkladen
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Comments (1)
Good writing