Bible Story Things

With knitted fingers he wipes his chin.

His salted, wispy hair quivers in unwelcomed nostalgia.

Doubly protected with fangs and leather,

he begs under a blanket for innocent acceptance.

Hiding his eyes in instinct not guilt,

he wades through the punctured corpses.

Dragooned into free will he misses,

his reflection in a puddle,

pooling in a parking lair.

There and back again, back to his coffee.

Crying no tears and sweating blood,

in his arms he protects an echo,

with his fury he guides a clawed misfit.

View kiddo's Full Portfolio
allets's picture

Good One!

One mark of a great poem is the reader wants to read it over and over and over and over ~~Lady A~~