Thursday, January 1, 2015


For the last year
I've eaten nothing
but cinders for breakfast.
Burnt words piled on plates,
not a lick of rain
to sooth my cracked tongue.

creatures go on bleating 
and bleating
while the sun above
never ceases its staring.
It can't stop seeing
what it's seen.

My hands, a tattoo of ash,
fold and rise
as if to beg,
but my brittle heart 
has hardened
and I cut
the nearest throat,
for the quenching,
not caring 
that it's blood,
not caring
whose it is.

 Poem & Photo by Bean.


Jay's Shadow said...

That pic and poem go together perfectly.

The poem reminds me of the earth after the apocalypse.

Shani said...


Gourdin Fester said...

Scoot over guys- let me in. That was awesome-

Willow Cove said...


Ragged Grin said...

Even on a cold, bone clanging day as these we've been locked in to, I maxed that photo and could taste the dryness, almost choked on hot breath and for a moment felt the unrelenting summer to come.