Famine Season
How many? By when?
The narrative slips,
an elephantine mistake.
Eight billion strained like
haunted houses. This is
about one. He’s quick.
Calculated. A bit fried.
There’s a hole that’s always
hungry. Growing. Expanding.
Terror, bloody teeth. Throat
scraped by fingernails. Malleable
fantasy. Iron plot. Fucked arena.
He feels the pinch. Hot wind,
entire buildings melt. Edges
bubble and topple. Sleep went
extinct, up all night thrashing.
Missing time. He sees himself
when he peeks around.
Unwell, lost. Patient, goblin.
Indestructible spirit. If he could
reap the tall grass, that would
be a start. Pale fangs are
unavoidable side effects.
Tension can’t swallow the fighter.