Bloated Bodies

Bloated bodies
Full of hot air tumble
Down hills cloaked
In inky shadow. The evening stinks
Of shame and festered regret
That spurts from their pores.

And the townsfolk hide. Death,
They think, comes pouring
Down the sloped mounds
Outside their homes
Where fires burn in stone chimneys
And smoke pours up into the sky
While the bodies moan
In personal toil.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s