The Scream Poem by Sheena Blackhall
The Scream
It isn't the scream that's awful
It's the whisper, encounter with bleakness
That moment alone in the city
The split carapace of coping shows its weakness
I am the lady of night
Grief is my lean handmaiden
My sorrow is made to measure
Six foot down, with black clods laden
My mouth is full of flies
My scream's where my womb's flesh lies
Wednesday, August 29, 2018
Topic(s) of this poem: death
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4/30/2024 9:37:29 PM # 1.0.0.1119
