Writing - poetry #2

Afternoon all, hope you're well. You may remember this post, a month ago, in which I shared an upbeat little ditty about two of the world's oldest professions. Today, something a little more dark.

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Sonnet no.1

Burn each and every member of the flock
Before the black bird swoops and takes his prey

(The most easy of these: those numbed by shock,

The rest blinded or taken in affray).

But he swoops, he dives, he eats my insides

And blood drips as we crow, his beak a key

That opens me. Again, I watch him glide

I’d rather drift, a pyre out at sea.

It seems smoking him out has no effect

So now it is my chest where he resides –

Jailed by ribs, they can take all his pecks

With his tongue I have no need to comply.

Now after so long abusing my pen

All of my words shall become mine again.

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