Poem: Death’s head and vectors

Oh diclonius, crowned captive
in your horns and hunger,
abstinent of guilt and ego.

There you dance for masters
bare breasted and masked,
drenched in the rainfall
of your reckoning.

A perfect fruit of lesser wombs,
man nurtures its own destruction
in blindness. The truth of Plato’s cave

is the end of fearful creatures.
Dressed in your death’s head
and vectors,
beauty begun anew.

About Dominic (130 Articles)
Journalist, blogger and father. Usually found in a Star Wars or anime tee-shirt. Obsessions include epic fantasy and model spaceships.

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