The Feline Knives
The rabbit scurries in the starlight’s wake,
The muscles move to the bright sun’s rhythm.
The wide brown eyes that twitch themselves awake
Start, and take possession of their kingdom.
A duchy of the silent-brooding moss
Where sparrows hawk the sky for frail moths.
The cat lies timelessly behind the tree,
Her laziness is jarred by a hunger,
A hunger for the graceful pouncing glee,
The antithesis of earthly thunder,
The thunder which rips the skull wide awake,
And makes the water rise above the lake.
Between the feline knives and lightening sky,
The rabbit twists and twitches to the woods,
The leaves fleck and whisper, and tell no lies,
Not to the cat with branches as her hood.
The strike is done! And behind the green eyes,
That graceful hunger gnaws for more disguise.
The trees rise tall, as all this flits beneath,
Climbing, falling, to the beat of the sun,
The delicate dance of hunting in heath,
Once again the rabbit turns back to run.
The gnawing lust to slice comes clean and fresh,
The rabbit dies another thousand deaths.
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Another poem for your perusal. watch
- Thread Starter
- 12-10-2013 02:05
- 12-10-2013 19:12
I like this line:
'Where sparrows hawk the sky for frail moths.'
- 13-10-2013 13:26