What A Beautiful Word


United States

He arrives at his living hell,
Tortured and taunted by bullies,
Like buzzards skipping and flapping around.
One bully, the Dark One’s true name.
The rotten bastard and his posse,
Cloaked and hooded in a strung-out line,
Big teeth seemingly squealing against each other,
As they kicked cries of thunder from his being.
Onlookers, they could only lower their heads.
Bullies vanish, leaving him,
Head slumped on his chest,
With blood on the floorstones.
He returns to his plutonian mother.
She saw him opposite of a pattern, perfect in every way,
Her tone mocking with a raucous laugh,
Belted high beneath her breasts.
As he ran, the biting cold assaulted his face.
Tears potruded from his eyes,
As his end came into view,
An oak, monstrous, piercing the clouds and rising taller.
His escape closer with each grab,
Each step,
Each grip.
The last step made the light appear not just encased, but fluid.
A prayer for the dead as ages come to pass.
His look was as cold as a stillborn baby.
Death…what a beautiful word.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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