by MEGAN MEALOR
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A menagerie of decay, of rabid rot, bone and bite and core. There is no need for venality here, sneaking cigarettes in our sleep. Muttering moonstruck beasts, incurable corpses continue to wallow and weep. We clutch the stale screams in our half-plundered lungs, and the walls peel and reel with the frenzy we reek. The mirrors reflect and reject, reverse, disconnect. Good-bye, not good-bye, our hands slip from cobwebs to grace. Revolution will come in a convulsion of violets, and it will not spare the deceased. |
Megan Mealor is 28 years old, a native of Jacksonville, Florida, and has recently been published in "Digital Americana" and "4 and 20 Poetry", and will be featured in an upcoming issue of "Midnight Circus."
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