15.12.08

The Cynic

He sits perched, snarling

Small yellow eyes glowing

His knuckles tight to cracking

Hating this world

His grey skin loose on his thin

Bottle at his feet

Crows shun him

And he thinks of human kind

Like a chef a rat

Like a doctor a disease

The blood reaches his eyes

Spidering like the veins in his cheeks

He spits as he speaks:

Don’t look upon me with disgust

I am no longer living among you

now you see me, it matters not

soon you will scurry along, sick

I shall remain, safe, unharmed.


h

posted by friars | Monday, December 15, 2008

0 Comments:

Post a Comment

<< Home

Notice

Notice

This web site is provided for information only. No claims are made of accuracy or validity, and no responsibility will be taken by the author for events arising from use of the information provided.

Creative Commons LicenceThis website is licensed under a Creative Commons Licence.

© All material present on this site is copyright to the author and should not be published elsewhere in any form without appropriate permission. However, any of the information contained at this site may be downloaded for personal use as defined by the Creative Commons Licence.

The content of linked sites are not under our control and we are therefore not responsible for the content of any linked sites or any subsequent links contained in a linked site. These links are provided as a convenience to the visitor and their inclusion does not imply our endorsement.