The rictus grin of rotting flesh
that feeds the one eyed crow—
Whose putrid scent offends the sense
of what we thought we know.
A savage peck for pounds of flesh
it plunges to the bone,
and leaves the empty rictus grin
no lips with which to moan.
That blackened beak and morbid cry
cut canyons in our backs,
and comes to rest as kith and kin
for the common sense we lack.
Copyright © 2020 by Keith E. Sparks Jr.
First Appeared in Impspired Magazine Issue 8.
Impspired.com
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