My Life In Word

OUTLIVERS

There are those
Who are called the Outlivers
Those who never seem to die
I refer to them as trespassers
Because they only come out 
When the moon westers low
And the ground is sprinkled
With young snow
Their skin appears varnished
With resinous damar
Beautifully unblemished
Without any scars
No one knows how many 
Outlivers exist
But I am sure their plurality
Has been overstated by fantasists
Who delight in relaying
Unfounded truths
To keep us shaking
In our boots

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Sebastian Unrau on Unsplash

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