tagNon-Erotic PoetrySmall White Bones

Small White Bones


Cold rain filters down
through the trees
wet leaves hang heavy
dripping onto fresh moss
and in a hollow tree
an owl hunches
for damp dark to hunt
small drenched creatures.

On ghostly wings he glides
disturbing only droplets
A startled squeak
soft scuffle.

He will swallow
rain-soaked fur
small white bones
and little still heart.

The sullied soil
and bent blades
tell the tale in stillness

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byGuiltyPleasure© 8 comments/ 1174 views/ 1 favorites

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