Howls,
night after night,
collide with the screams
of a torn fabric
left on the ground.

A map,
smeared on his face,
divides the crooked
byway.

Sighs,
between the sundowns,
confine the
unbounded clock.

The moon,
inhaling the peach,
penetrates the 
fatness of veins.

Into the earthy tones
of madness, 
the absence of light
breaks the hold of 
the hope
that stains the bleeding,
the speeding of hours. 

The mouth,
barrenly dry,
resigns from the flames
of the worn panic
lost in his sound. 

© 2015 Randy Haddock

The Worn Panic

Hi. My name is Randy Haddock. These are some of my demos. I hope you like them.

Email: ranhaddock@gmail.com