I found this old poem I wrote when I was going through some papers of mine the other day. I have no idea where the subject matter came from, to be honest, but I liked it enough to save it from the obscurity of a printout on paper and put it here on my blog. Continue reading “Sculpture/Thread”
They flocked to see him as he lay dying, coming in pairs, trios, and whole extended families to touch his scales and to feel the heat of his huge body. Their voices were hushed and full of awe as they surrounded him, children looking up at him with wide eyes while their parents watched warily for any sign of aggression.
He could not see them for his eyes were caked with blood and dust and he was too tired to open them, but he could not sleep for the fingers poking and prying at his flanks, for the susurrus of their voices.
How had he come to this?