Walk In My Shoes

I am salmon, coughed free
from the wool of amniotic fists,
cast upon the snow, to steam
in winter's limp-sun kiss.

I flick a lick of saltless tongue
to sup this deathly bliss,
and taste escape, awaited long,
an ice-grave cut by my lips' wish.

This hollow is my death spot.

Crawl in my tracks, trail
this blood across your peaceful snow,
deaf as my decades' deeds,
my sun choked by winter's weeds.

Hear their viney fingers crisp.
"Oh, to be a slave" they hiss.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.