Ghost of Earth ©


November 19, 2016 Poems, Word, Writing

A black mamba at center circle writhes beneath a unison muscle. She is unexpecting of the attention and intentions of so many appendages at half a glace. Or maybe I am. They cure her anyway and there she is. Fully present and lost beneath vampiric inverses.

Meanwhile, I contemplate whether I’m for or against a glove in a similar situation, where I am her and she is me. I’m always thinking of the science as a screen. She would look on, mining for pleasure inside and outside of the looking-glass cavern. She would spin the wheel once or twice in my direction. We may meet eyes through the black mirror, we may not.

From what I gathered, she was helpless and vulnerable and belonging to all of them and none of them. She didn’t need protection and so there was none. But I do.

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