Conversation With A Rat - Poem by Declan Barwell
Ah it sits there, bold as brass.
The rat in its element,
picking at the flesh that
sustains him. Oh scavenger!
Do you take pleasure in the
shackles placed on his hands?
Is the prospect of easy prey
appealing to you?
Your shrill screams of insults
are only to be echoed.
The fault is not his own.
You scream silence at him,
your foul reddened nose
twitching and your absurd
grey tartan fur
bristling as you rile yourself up.
As with clothes, you shed
your feelings, almost snakelike.
But you are not majestic, your
blood, when shed, runs deep, deep red.
This is why you're an outcast, no friends
apart from those who will sip
from the same vein.
Comments about Conversation With A Rat by Declan Barwell
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You