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Old works, number 12: Hear

Here is a poem I wrote in 2008 (I think it was based on a dream?).

Hear

My inner scream echoes through the wall,

The dead snake hears my call,

And slithers through slit and hall.


Each scale an eye and soul in mind,

Because his has rust filled with the kind,

The edge of him strokes to see mysteries to find.


A soft, inaudible, yet undeniable lyric is sung,

Though all through the dust, no rustle rung. 


(Prompt by me but encouraged by Emily Kleeman)
"snake skin" by Tom Woodward. Attribution-ShareAlike 2.0 Generic (CC BY-SA 2.0).

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