misplacedwords
The silt is
not a covering.
Holes poke through,
and the movement
of small creatures conveys
the destruction
that lays dormant
below.
It was quick, painless. He fell to the ground in a graceful ark, and, for a moment, it seemed like he was floating. Then he was on the ground, and a lovely puddle of red was spreading around his head. There was a small, soft laugh.
I am a flower.
Or, so you tell me.
I am just a
delicate bud,
with no teeth.
If I am a flower,
you are the dirt.
You crumble in
my roots.
It was not
a rush.
Not really.
The teeth were growing closer,
and the glass was cracking,
but, they were not
pressed for time,
not really.