he holds his secrets
like shards of broken glass:
an ogre as a woman
sits down and sighs,
“Listen to my story,
Listen to my cries.”
An ogre as a tree approaches
sending roots beneath the ground,
“What words grow here?
Why would you even care?”
An ogre as a parable
insinuates his whispers,
“I can help if you let me
control what you hear.”
he stands as if to go;
blood drips to the ground.
(April 2013)
