white rabbit



The rabbit did not make a sound

He thought it would squeal more  as he lifted it by its ears

Entering the woods in early daylight  the branches covered with signs of winter


Ghosts formed from his breath

Odd shapes of unfamiliar faces

On this day someone was going to die

Death is the true birth he thought     as the rabbit kicked his skin open


Soon his hands would grow

One of these days  his boots would no longer fit

No boy would survive   killing a rabbit of this size

Poetry by EmelÚn The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 1193 times
Written on 2014-11-09 at 16:42

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Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
I like this a lot: an interesting notion presented in a very interesting way.