Hungry ones
Will risk a lot
For just a bite.

(Forgive me?
Everything is a lure
For my fickle pen.)

He did not see
How a fallen tree
Could lay me so low.

And now this.
So much thrives
Beneath the winking.

It seems to call for
Words to mourn
Or celebrate a passing —

Because what if
There’s only one chance
To break the surface
Of being?

And we are lucky —
Born in a time
When we are not
Such easy prey.

And I can’t deny
I crave
The taste of blood.

(How it seems to
Acquire more depth
With each year.)

But again I say
It’s lucky —
These twists of fate.

They bring those
Who make it easy
Or hard —
Who are able to remind
That it’s just…


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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