Saturday, May 28, 2016



The creatures tried to raise their heads, but failed,
So feeble they could scarcely move or breathe,
We pitied them; inferior of race,
Despite their handsome shiny metal home,
We hungered, so we ate them where they lay,
Their screams and gabbles hurtful to the ear,
Their layered garb was dry and tough to chew,
The metal bits we saved to give the kids.

The children played excitedly with them,

They pulled and pushed them as they're wont to do,
A sharp report and smoke; a shout and screams,
My child fell bleeding from a tiny wound,
My dying son was perforated through,
And there was nothing I could do for him.

A blank-verse sonnet.

No comments: