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.
Mortality.
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
The Social Poet 