Empty

It’s quiet in here.

You could hear a pin drop.

But it’s not pleasant,

Only vacant.

 

It’s not half full.

It’s dry as a bone.

And there’s not an echo,

Because there’s not a voice.

 

It’s a quiet place,

Where I hide.

There’s NOTHING there;

So I don’t count

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Afterbirth

I am a fetus

Within the womb of Earth,

Waiting to be born

Into the afterlife.

 

I was conceived

By the gods

And this womb is only

A temporary home.

 

Spirits are placenta;

And my breath is my umbilical cord.

When I am born,

It will be cut off.

The Fisherman

He will tempt them.

They will give in.

He hides his gaff,

And charms their simple minds.

 

They struggle for a moment.

They fight for one last breath.

One greedy intention; a twisted perception,

Fell prey to the king of the food chain.

They secrete their anguish-

He’s such a sport.

Inefficient gluttony

Rejected for the massive one.