The light hunts a dog: Denying it
I run, tripping over corpses.
Hands; are withered flowers
With bent stems: reaching
For the light, that now seeks me.
Am I the only one?
Is the light my saviour? I deny it.
Fleeing, falling over wire snakes.
Trapped; their tails wrap
Around my legs: biting
At my flesh, chewing and gnawing.
It taunts me.
If the light will save me: then why?
Why am I scared to embrace it?
Pain; he is my brother
Who teases me; lashing
With a pointed tongue, so piercing.
Am I in hell?
It has found me: I can’t
Deny it while hung in a web
Of steel, captured by
its rusting fangs. Stray dog
Caught. Wounded in their trap
I howl in torment.
Their light beckons this dog: Led astray
I yield, bloodied and broken.
A lonely wolf without its pack
Is a feast, a surgeon’s meal.
They carve into my flesh without question.
Am I to be reborn anew?
Thomas Cornhill spends most of his time dodging mind bullets while attempting to make something of his life. He lives in a constant battle with himself, which causes many lapses in the ability to write, but when he can, writing often takes over and he loses track of how much time has passed by. When Thomas is not writing, he plies time towards games and other entertainment sources (to give his personal demons a ‘Storm-troopers’ accuracy), or towards his business venture(s). He sometimes blogs here.
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