Nothing is the answer.
We are not one.
Born of divinity, scoff.
Depravity and blood.
Atlas smashed the sins of the world.
David built them up.
Shown no crime to taper off.
Just walk and waddle till forever set.
All hominids breed contempt.
All hominids breathe the scent,
That forefathers wore,
When cutting off the heads of deer.
Duct-taped to a dolorous host.
For years groomed to brave and boast,
This coveted neo-saxon ring.
Born of the parasite’s waxy inability,
To ensure itself some sustenance,
When detached became its orifice,
That so long had sipped the sinful soup.
But upon the shrivel that shaped its way,
Came long a sparrow and with it lay,
The script on which the para’s eyes beheld,
The answer to escaping this impossible hell.
About the Creator
R.M. Kamm
A confused sea-bearing cartographer.
Spectating
I can't imagine dying like this, in a place like this; on a cold, dirty pavement with rush hour traffic screaming by and a crowd looking on while paramedics struggle to find space to move. Who could? Deep down we all think there should be a reason, a moment of clarity... or a family presence, at least. For this man, this boy, the rail thin woman lighting a cigarette in a faux fur jacket will have to do - she's been here since the start, her eyes tracking the movement of my shoulders as we fight to keep him on the right side of the line.
By S. A. Crawford6 days ago in Fiction
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