Flash Fiction & Poetry
Sheep’s Clothing
The wolf’s at your door.
The wolf’s in your bed.
The wolf’s inside your head.
There’s nowhere to run, little red.
Nowhere to hide.
No safe place to abide.
About the author
Amateur etymologist; staunch existentialist; mediocre poet; unabashed bibliophile; Salieri of torch singers; human anachronism.
| Print article | This entry was posted by Jen Hodges on April 15, 2010 at 7:03 am, and is filed under Uncategorized. Follow any responses to this post through RSS 2.0. You can leave a response or trackback from your own site. |
