Tuesday, September 28, 2004

Bad Poetry

I don't consider myself much of a poet, but yesterday afternoon, I got a very disturbing image in my mind as I was thinking of ideas for a story I've been working on. It had no place in my story, but somehow my imagination kept fleshing it out until it was all I could see last night as I tried to go to sleep. So I got a pen and wrote the images down. If that's a poem, whatever.

    Reflections on Watching an Eight-Year-Old Boy Kill a Crow With a Baseball

    Crimson splattered
    Little toy
    Twisting in his eager hand

    Broken wing
    Snapping beak
    Fearful eyes and hissing squawks

    Feathers stained
    Struggling legs
    Useless claws and frantic jerks

    Crunching skull
    Bleeding head
    One for sorrow, now it's dead.

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