Dead And Down

• Beatrice Chiew
• Poetry
• 2008

He gapes his jaws o' hungry wolf
gnashing, thrashing his wretched gums,
licking dry his bloodied chops
full from feasting on empty hearts.

'Tis but a game of blind man's bluff;
wide and wary, but ne'er we see.
Stumbling about the lurid laughs,
we wretches writhe 'neath darkened skies.

Depression is the howling wind,
whipping at whim we helpless leaves.
The shadow who sours summer's silk,
charges the bell to peal ever silent.