Comfort at its best

Skin to speak

of bricks and shattered fingers

your wrinkles a curved bow

firing through my head space

nestled between my marble eyes.

You smell of warm animal skins

a hearth cloaking my shivers

comfort at its best.

I still have that scent imprinted

onto a hoodie, flecks of spittle

a dotted gaudy pattern.

Comfort at its best

when I divine the blood that

drip, drip, dripped down your stubbled chin

when I snarl, prey in a clever trap

hearing your gasping last, that scent

chasing

its tail out of the window.

I am an animal too so I know how an animal dies.

It begins with skin to speak

of greying pallor and ashy fingertips

then you shift from wolf to hunting dog

chasing a cure over a well worn forest floor

the webbed leaves crunching living autumn.

When you turn in the end

the fletching aimed your way

the scent is ironclad and you are the fox

piteous whining coating your dulled mouth.

Comfort at its best

when I think of your scent

still existing.

Comfort at its worst

when I remember that I know how animals die.

How I will hunt and be hunted

A medieval tapestry of fate and

lords of plague will laugh as they aim

their bloody arrows

their hunting dogs racing

joyeous and panting

to Die.