Swamp Visitor

I am the swamp and slough, a pimp of mud and bugs. I am x’s and o’s, procurer of kisses and hugs. I steal gumboots and heels from soldiers and w****s. I am the feels. A dream that kills the dreamer, and I’m an illegal drug dealer and I own a copper distillery and a paper mill. I am a castle and flood plain, my blood veins lasso throats like gallows. All things die in me. I am the swamp, a place as an anti-hero.

But all things are reborn here too. A beast is born sixteen years ago from sticks and mud torn from book pages stolen from mages and hidden under stones. A cave in a swamp, a metaphor for female’s deadly puberty. She’s reborn. A woman molded with dragonfly wings. An ugly faerie with a fate most dreary. She owns slaves like fauns and chess pawns and the least of insects with breasts of dairy. She has the power to put all living things into comatose or feast. Unfeeling squaring. No man stands a chance, nor can change her dance, for she laughs first and also last. She is the daughter of my world, and has french-tip claws. Twelve fingers like a dozen saws. Crows as pets, a language of caws. A mirror of mud in the mind, a million deformities and flaws. She is a monster. The beast.

Inch by inch and day by day, a drug addict walks this way into his own decay. 

Moon by moon and shot by shot, a beautiful man will challenge him some day.

Word by word and hate by hate, a monster waits and digs their early graves.

Penny by penny and guts by guts, I am the swamp and I host drug raves.