Bagpipes howl for battle
guttural
100 drums pound
sound whipping into his armor
sending shards back out
he stands in his silver against the moon
faceplate guards, no face
I rip the rubber windpipe from his jaw
through the sliver in connecting plates
neck pulp
as my pupils sear through his blinding
white
our breaths crumples
inward
bites off falling plywood
landing together
into the fist of mangled flesh still in my grasp
pouring hot blood
twitching
collapsing
seeds
and we fall asleep
About the Creator
Michele Nampalli
This space is breath for my sensitivity. The poems come fully formed. I've known for quite some time now that my art is about receiving more than creation...its the most natural way I know to process my inner world. It started when I was 7.
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