Road-kill death scents the highway,
and the heat of cloudless skys
warms the guts
until it is almost barbeque pleasant.
Out of the rotted mass,
smeared to the bitumen
grows tire twisted limbs.
Organs push,
splitting open the skin,
oozeing through the blood-clotted fur.
Mouth wired open
in a permenant howl of pain.
And still we drive.
A contest entry
- Not For The Weak by Immortal Obscurity.
1750 points, ended June 9, 2008, 22 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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a good piece, ah the roads are dangerous places for animal life, mind you they are for us who built them too. that could have been breakfast if the drive had paused.
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... I will give you that it was different, but that's not always a good thing. It was raw-meat raw, as opposed to emotionally-raw, and I really didn't find it impacted me as a reader... What I mean is, there was nothing that really made you stand out. Either way, thanks for entering, and good luck.
Laura
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