The Whisky Blot
Journal of Literature, Poetry, and Haiku
All is lost to me
Or rather, lost on me. Maples recoil from violence Of Moon; cold, harsh Now bathed in silent orange blood Teeming with silvered sweat I see mornings when Eagle thrice appeared Two times at my feet, once high above His message a subtle admonition To watch my feet; vipers are near. In the red marshes of sunrise I align myself with Wolf I am weary. I am tired. Settling down upon a rock I wait for warmth To soak into my bones H. Russell Smith, a citizen of the Cherokee Nation, lives in the Joplin, MO area. He is an avid Ham Radio Operator and bumbling supervillain. Comments are closed.
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