Poem – “Banshee”


Always on the search for the sacred skull,
A species, an animal not yet born
Where does it go, these hours eking by
Like tar through the teeth of a banshee

They sort us out like precious seedlings,
By colour, by face and by name
Then they throw us to the breeze with careless hands
Like we never meant anything to them
The torrent fills our heads like a banshee…

©S. M. Shuford 2018
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