A desert of skin, I cajole the artificial rain into battle. The water crusades against the multitude of stubble on my chest but blends in failure with the rivulets of dry blood as it's magnetically drawn to the hole. Abodes of bacteria are isolated over my shoulder, a colony. I dip it amidst the fire and they are lost. I pull it back, and more appear. Water streams through my arms like veins. It curves to the underside and forms icicles in motion as it pours to the shiny bottom. Orbs scurry down my stomach like a maddened crowd into the trenches surrounding my general, standing tall. The hair on my legs flickers like grass in a heavy wind. The drops appear like mountains of eyes with valleys of lines across the vast ceiling. The bubbles gather around the black hole and pop like lives. Ha, I mock the gods and their weight, for they can't budge me. All it takes is one thrust through the combat zone and the piercing squeal of the handle, the eighth day, to starve the masses for a few brutal seconds before they are swept away and absorbed.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...