She Puts Out The Call To The Wild
As she holds forth in the punishment of death
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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Please click the link below my name to read more of my work. I would also like to thank you for taking the time to read this today and for all your support.
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Originally posted on Medium
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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