A GRUESOME BATTLE
Michael Arthur Finberg
It was there by the cobweb
fluttering
in the wind now this
afternoon,
Where the nearby Autumn
leaves were
strewning, a distant
din sealing
and dripping its siphon
like split
sap slipping down
from the hulk of some tree,
seducing the insects
as they slyly
observed someone
spilling open a
loose piece of wood, in
the dark
hidden hood of
the forest
when suddenly, an old fridge
chimed in
with its damning
rattle
pulling in the reins
of the newly
distant leaves,
who, I asked
could win this gruesome
battle, would it be the
rutsy axe, the struggling
leaves, maybe this
rattling old fridge,
or perhaps just diseased
silence.
