blackened shotgun

[ceramiclifestyl]

Wet slime dribbling,
the gravel hot and melting
the slug takes its time

With the yellow skin
slowly exposing within
the indistinguishable insides

Breathing at a standstill
air forcing the pill
"Am I where I'm supposed to be?"

Breaking the chains of destiny
and into the briny
echoes of fate it steams

And the man's foot
heavy, smells of wood
the aromas of a home vanished

On that asphalt canvas
while colors kiss
they mix

wrestling with the last dregs of short life's past
still hanging on

and that was it. A splatter of yellow on the street
was all the creature left