Cut Short

Truncated tongues

At the tip of the edge

Of the razor

Slitted eyes ripe

For the poison

Contrived

 

Calamities

Stuffed in jars

Heaved against

The heaviness of

The drum

 

The disheveled

Stance once known

To dance

 

Stabs its staff

Formed into a

Question mark interred

Into the beneath

 

The mangled

Messenger steps

Out of the robed

Saga towards the

Smoldering sage

 

In florescent lies

Dragged across

The sky

 

We catch

The drop of

Breath

 

Abrupt

 

Gone

 

 

© 2016 Tony Robles

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