There were animals. They came to me
with their bloodstained murmurs
choking the night, the weight of misery
a gloom in their throats. Beasts of all
shapes and mythologies scratching
at the soil around my grave, each one
driven by its own unique hunger
but all intent on writing my end.
I can almost run my fingers through
the sun-streaked strands of those days,
when I was nothing but a silhouette
disappearing into fog – just a sketch.
I could step into a crowd and never
resurface. No one would suspect a thing.
1 August 2015