#singpowrimoday4 #alfiansaat #singpowrimo #poetrychallenge4 #waybehind Slow Loris His eyes are drowning In fear, in black pools Like permanent tearstains Or mementoes Of a century-old Insomnia. Look at his hands, Reaching out On electric nights For a branch, a twig, A filament of jungle. Look at his trembling, The foetal grasp, The blanched skin Of his palms. Look at his feet, Which are also hands, As if the land was on fire. A shaman’s pouch Flung into the trees. Witch-fingers testing the air For danger. Seeking a path Of least pain. Don’t be fooled. He owns a set of glands That he licks To spread the poison All over his fur. His shyness Is Midas-like, remorse At the force of his touch. His colour is death Practising her blush.
Posted on: Sat, 05 Apr 2014 21:02:12 +0000
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