• tessthepoet 11w


    I counted ribs on his concertina chest
    Bones protruding as if chiselled
    By a sculptors hand of famine
    He looked with glazed pupils
    Seeing only a bun on some sky-high shelf
    The skin was pale and taut
    Like a glove on a doctors hand
    His tongue dared in and out
    Like a chameleon's
    Snatching a confetti of flies
    O ! Child
    Your stomach is a den of lions
    Roaring day and night.