it is not arithmetic.

there is a demon in his chest

crawling through the ventricles

lurking in the arteries, waiting

waiting for the moment, when

the pulse quickens and sparks

his eyes grow dark, absent light

the light dims,  then flickers out

its blackness smothering the air

inhabiting his skeleton, licking his heart

his heart will thrash and quiver

stopping and gasping, long before

his features will return, to see the dawn

© 4.17.12 heather brager

we know better.

we die at midnight

waking to snow covered dirt

that is mud by noon

© 4.17.12 heather brager

it will not rain.

the plans are written

upon the souls of their feet

the sky does not know

© 4.11.12 heather brager

a cyclical story.

if there was a trophy
he knew he had earned it

gradually mimicking nature as the seasons changed

he knew he was a warrior
a ruler among the pious few

all the while, dragging the pretty young thing by her hair

he situated her on a pedestal
as he prepared his throne

the shrubbery grew around her as he stacked precious stones

he thought would defend her
ignoring the power she offered him

inside the empty house on a lake, the grounds are overgrown

he never saw time passing
while she cut off her hair


© written a long time ago... rediscovered 4.9.12 heather brager