Parasite
I
suckle from your witch's mark,
grow strong upon your bleeding teat.
I'll swallow more the more I grow -
I'll soon become my own defeat.
The flowing spice - your
crimson milk
might halt without a moment's
note.
Warm mouthfuls cross my
blackened tongue
in hope to sate my
ebon throat.
My appetite might not relent -
the more I take, the more you give -
a future's not in my descent.
You kill yourself that I might live.
Please flush me out
before you die -
though you still
stand, all's not all right -
or, nourish me 'till
nipples dry.
With love, your humble
parasite.
Jeffrey Meikle
COPYRIGHT
9 Feb. 1999
... |