cockatrice

I don't know where this one came from, but it came aggressively and stole some sleep from me. So it better mean something to somebody.

cockatrice

eyes shut against the curse, the verse remains.
words curdling on the tongue, dung in the sun,
life or death, depending on your frame of reference.
and through it all the bloody silence, not crimson,
but the black tar of guano of something sinister.
fear slips into something more comfortable
as displaced hatred and anger bangs her fist
against an obelisk, carved with the cockatrice.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.