Speechless…
Worse… If not for the contagion of calamity;
might I find the courage?
Instead,
she screams;
her body
convulsing,
writhing,
twisting, and
dislocating. The sacristy
drastically demanding
the vex of pestilence.
Drab’d be the jest -
panic at her power,
prove her impotence -
save the vermillion
drenching manacles:
Under muzzle, her
maniacal for mercy.
If saith He: undue spirits
become the Devil,
what fate awaits
a man with none?
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The Harvest
Koyi wobbled to her shabby wood and straw kaz, holding her machete and an old burlap bag with some yams. Someone had laid another basket in front of the patched up door—rose apples today. They were a bright reddish pink, looking waxy and crisp, just the way she liked them. The culprit knew her very well. Those would be crunchy, juicy and sweet—she could tell—but she gathered all the will she could muster and pushed the basket aside to enter her home. She had already said no repeatedly and would not be taking bribes.
By Lily Séjor2 days ago in Fiction
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