Ryan Webb Poems

Doors- run through the doors.
The shape of age is not
Hate- the great escape,
So strange, the mouth will gape.
...

A bleached-snow vortexes my way.
A blemished goddess taunts its presence;
Her scoffing words dealt little damage for she resides in the storm;
Her sluggish enclosure resumes course.
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Licking sweat- salty human essence.
Stinging; the drought consumes the lips,
The tongue, the throat.
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A violent perfume is excreted from a rubber balloon.
The odor lounges, disturbing victims near and far.
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Exhume the bodies of your past lives,
Consume their essence for your nourishment.
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