PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

With knitted fingers he wipes his chin.

His salted, wispy hair quivers in unwelcomed nostalgia.

Doubly protected with fangs and leather,

he begs under a blanket for innocent acceptance.

Hiding his eyes in instinct not guilt,

he wades through the punctured corpses.

Dragooned into free will he misses,

his reflection in a puddle,

pooling in a parking lair.

There and back again, back to his coffee.

Crying no tears and sweating blood,

in his arms he protects an echo,

with his fury he guides a clawed misfit.