Friday, January 22, 2010

Fear of The Unknown

The smell hangs on your
soggy cargo pocket-
like the rain that's
drenching your boots.

You try to shake it as
if it's a fly on your foot-
but it only makes you feel

You press your hand
against the warm clay door-
it vibrates-as if
to say: don't enter-
they're here.

And the moment comes
when you slam into it.
Knees weak with it,
a tiny drop falls

giving you just enough-
to raise your weapon
and take perfect aim-
for there is no more.

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