Cicada 8:33A Poem by EthanYellow crashes against this Window, shining light On my sickly white walls. The weighty anvil descends on me And traps my fevered body as Its iron cools and crushes my whimpering bones. This is my afterlife, immortal but immobile. I desire nothing more than a cracked rib And snacks now and then. But I wish the insects would leave me be. They circle my bed like chanting savages, Flashing their fangs and beating winged drums. Their nauseous hum seeps inside my thoughts As I shake my vomit-filled head, Desperate to escape. Bleeding ears and burning body Remind me of demons past, Scraping their way up my throat. I am but a humbly pure shell, Nothing more, perhaps less, Sentenced to sleep in an oven. © 2017 EthanAuthor's Note
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Added on July 30, 2017Last Updated on July 30, 2017 Tags: poetry, free verse, prose, cicada Author
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