November, 2013

Miniscule Malevolence. ( Blake style )

I stood and watched a vagrants fire
a flea’s ghost leapt out from the pyre.
He thirsts; such thirst is plain to see,
his red eyes sear the flesh of me.

His tongue darts in and out again,
eager to sup blood, like a drain.
I’m a cup that sets his eyes alight
this ghost who drains my blood tonight

Whose soul confined within the flea
ravages each body with glee.
I wonder if the tramp is dead,
or lives on, in that furnace head?