I laid with the secret monster.
So sorrowful it was. Offhand, I tried
saying something, but it was woolly.
It looked back with hazel eyes.
Oh if a look could be tyrannical,
speak indescribable loss, violent and
sweet. Then it sagged on the ground
and so I laid hands on it like
a priest–an incantation took place.
And slowly, the creature spewed out
the poison. Drop by drop. So purged.
In the early morning light, we rose
with the cauldron, didn’t think
it had mattered that much.
Prompt: Yippee. Funnily enough, I did get here haphazardly, ending poetry month with Writers Digest Day 29 Prompt (to write a haphazard poem), thanks to a technical glitch which meant I only got the prompt today. I suppose the poem itself isn’t that haphazard. The process sure is. I had no effing idea what I will write and then the poem just wrote itself. So is the poetic process haphazard or what? You just got to write and find out for yourself. Then when you’re done, and only when you’re done, you’re allowed to pat yourself and go have a cup of tea with cake.