The Bully’s Definition

My skin once was bark,

I held birds in my green hair.

The morning air, held my cries

as I fell in the river

after that cruel metal

bit so deep into me.

My arms that once reached to the sky an out across the land,

cut.

My free love and enjoyment of life itself,

stolen.

My toes that felt the soft warm mud,

buried.

Bleeding sawdust I am reduced to boards.

A table is made from my bones.

A toxic slime is smeared all over me,

A deep rich varnish.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert

 

 

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