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+--- Thread: The hog (/showthread.php?tid=42747)
The hog - Schism - 01-24-2022
There’s mornings where the hog hangs high
When the ice melts back and the savory stench of hope sweeps my nostrils
Where the past is dead, and the future non existent
There’s no blood, no dread, no putrid sobs for the present
These mornings are nicer than others, when the hog is all slaughtered
When I’m unable to learn, and only dwelling on all I’ve taught her.
Flesh torn, guts mangled. The thrashing teeth of wolves leaving not even a throat to strangle.
Where has my hog gone? The morning fog is so thick. Why was I so wrong? I smell not hope, only the burning globs of my sick.
Where is my hog, where is my comfort? On the mornings when the ice stays frozen I sop it’s gushing and wonder.