Night Enough For Dying

 

It is night enough for dying, just

Dark enough for closing eyes,

There is breath enough for sighing, lust

Emptying breasts that stall and die.

Weep and little black coffins fall upon the leaves,

Smudging the lives they left behind.

A snail, sliding along the razor’s edge

Of disappointment,

Only slime keeps it from death.

It is night enough for dying, when

The man with his head so far up his arse

It’s turned blood orange,

Is still voted president.

It is night enough for dying, when

Nobody listens to the crying baby,

Or the woman screaming in rape,

Or the child with her  skin burned off,

But they vote for the fool, anyway.

Ⓒ 2016

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About Zoe Nightingale

I am a writer of short stories, novels, poetry and non fiction.
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