Arts & Literature
The Cave
At the mouth of the cave
That breathes out pure hatred
Stabs of frigid exhales
Swept past with an intent to kill
The gravel bounces as the earth shakes
In anticipation of my impending raze
Depths of the opening; rise, low, sinister chants
Resonating echoes as chilled bones cracked
Before fear is replaced by an all-consuming rage
The setting sun catches a tepid water droplet
Teetered at the edge of a fissure along sloping stones
And it laments to me all the ordeals it bemoans
I reach out, placing my palm on the freezing rocks
Wipe the tears they shed, wondering if these make waterfalls
Though the air remains cold, the gusts of wind quieten down
An emerging feeling; no murder attempts happening now
At the mouth of the cave
That breathes out pure hatred
Stabs of frigid exhales
Sweep past without going in for the kill
The author is an emerging poetess.
