Is It Poetry
The Beast Unbuttoned - Poem by Is It Poetry
The Beast Unbuttoned;
lays as still as death transfixed.
And troubles only those,
troubled fingers trembled in pause.
The bone of bones and soft faces,
land on valleys narrow peaks.
And each farmers son,
who plows the field looks back above.
The beast that can't be pushed out even,
when it's being pulled in.
It is always dead when it's around it,
the hand has, opened and Unbuttoned it.
By it's narrow back,
you raise it's head too near the open flame.
Any beast that stands upright
and knows your name, you call it out.
One beast Unbuttoned,
winds it's way inside your mind and stays.
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