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She Puts Out The Call To The Wild

As she holds forth in the punishment of death

By Colleen Millsteed Published 6 months ago Updated 6 months ago 2 min read
Image courtesy of Pixabay

She wears the feathers of a peacock,

As she walks the valley of obstruction, with a whisky in her hand,

Fires to the left of her cuddle her like a cloak as she passes,

Knowing she’s the secret ruler of this entire land.


Thunder ripples through the earth, stopping at her feet,

As she stands her ground, clicking her fingers to call the wild,

Lightening rains around her in a kaleidoscope of fireworks,

Until the giggling sound carries, that of her only child.


The fluttering of bird feathers carry her whispered commands,

Calling forth her sergeant in arms, the phoenix of yesterday,

When it lands in front of her and takes a bow,

Flames flickering it’s feathers in a majestic display.


By her side walks her brother, the famous white wolf,

Teeth razor sharp, feasting on the bones of the vulture,

A delicacy it craves but rarely obtains,

As his mistress travels the airways in fortified culture.


The ocean waves sprint to face her head on,

A wall of protection at the very edges of her land,

Any foolish enough to brow beat those in her den,

Realise too late they’ve taken their final stand.


She rides the airwaves of the lightenings static,

Searching for the erotic scent of the blood of stones,

Every foot fall is calculated on a whimsical reef,

Scattered with the goriness of captured skull and crossbones.


Her head snaps to the left as the sound of drumbeats roll,

It’s the rest of her pack, joining her in celebration,

Led forward by her famous wolf hound,

In its mouth that one who’ll she castrate into damnation.


Before his demise, he’ll plead for his life,

Asking for what is he being punished by death,

She responds in a whisper, for only his sordid ears,

“For nothing more than my amusement, so don’t waste your breath.”

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Originally posted on Medium

surreal poetry

About the Creator

Colleen Millsteed

My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.

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Excellent work. Looking forward to reading more!

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Comments (4)

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  • Blake S6 months ago

    Great use of visual words!

  • Wolves! And I'm so in love with what she said in response to his question! 😍

  • Cathy holmes6 months ago

    ohhh, this is great, especially that last line.

  • Babs Iverson6 months ago

    Fabulous 💕

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