Hoot

Image © Alexander James


My hands wired all around her skin.

Preparations swirling with a two hand clock in her hair,

turning into a potent bun.

The calm northern winds, making the front door flutter
into a satisfied smile

and then, her sudden disappearance

into the black, for a mission.

Now each day I wake in that broken room. Boom!

She blasts herself into a hundred pigeons.

Few die in colors, a few remain,

hooting on my death.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s