Not the killing type (Part I)

I try not to question my humanity

and let me be damned,

but I’m not the killing type.

Only sometimes

I want to put out someone’s eyes

press them in or pluck them out

like the clear plastic baubles from a lifeless doll.


Like a force majeure,

rip the bricks from walls

watching architecture crumble and tumble

the relics of a past age fall,

flutter like shredded butterflies on the wind.

To see the roads upend

and people shriek in terror as they scramble

crushed into crimson smears 

as rock rends flesh from bone.


The metropolises collapsing, and 

each and every one the construct

of the sweat, tears and blood of some

long-dead widows and widowers, orphans

and families.

Ashes to ashes, and blood to blood,

dripping, visceral, like a water-clock keeping time.

Too many walls, and too little time;

the pieces of the city fly away with my mind

and a distant tower’s bell begins to chime.


◄ Writing poetry is harder than you think

Dear Sigyn ►


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