She is an owl-eyed hourglass,

outraged and out

reaching for something

as alive as she is.

Or at least that familiar feeling

akin to death’s breath

on the back of her neck.

Venomous vigor envelopes her voice:

a tree whose fruit stains the mouth black

like oil sipped from a wine glass.


That pet whose leash

is melted to her wrist, a game that

bores the vampires hiding in her words:

those who draw upon a man-made eternity

no more steadfast than a

castle of sand.

Let her find some pulse

as furious and desperate as her own.

Let her spill away with someone

as she has tried to all her life.


Charlie Mischer, USA

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