Fell Hotel 05 – Bent Horns
Plenty familiar, the wound, her
now-old face can read the depth of
a bruise, uncanny fact
The blurred drone whiskey-snore is an
exit cue, bent horns are raised and they howl –
plays her offstage to a midnight-wet lawn
Now she practices rage, forcing red despair through
her tired veins, struggle to contain history, common
becomes an extraordinary feat
Now they are claws.
Text and Images © Andrew Auten – All Rights Reserved
