photographypoetry

Fell Hotel 05 – Bent Horns


Plenty familiar, the wound, her
now-old face can read the depth of
a bruise, uncanny fact

The blurred drone  whiskey-snore is an
exit cue, bent horns are raised and they howl –
plays her offstage to a midnight-wet lawn

Now she practices rage, forcing red despair through
her tired veins, struggle to contain history, common
becomes an extraordinary feat

Now they are claws.



Text and Images © Andrew Auten РAll Rights Reserved