Monday, 27 May 2013

DEAD CUB...

Dead Cub

Soil scratched, flung and deposited
Revealed
Gaping holes, like wounds exposed
By the scraping aside of blood,
Congealed…

And there, prostrate, unmoving, it lay, lifeless,
A parody of its recent basking;
In fresh death, quite soul-less,
No gaunt pain for the masking-

But those eyes, now shut, rested,
Yet no longer the sun’s warmth reflected:
Merely a kind of peace;
Concealed:
Its fate softly, serenely, sadly
Sealed…



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