Roadkill Poem by Paul Day
Roadkill
Picture this:
Writhing.
Head, arms, legs flailing frantically beyond control.
Flailing to distract the pain.
Your stomach is flattened, crushed.
You are two halves, separated save for a bone, tendon, or a nerve.
Out of control.
Life, time, death are all meaningless.
You don’t think.
You can’t scream.
But you want to.
Pain.
You are roadkill.
That’s what it felt like.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/20/2024 2:37:46 AM # 1.0.0.1119
