I lay on my back ,
Half today , half shadow-lands
A tiny man appeared on my wrist.
He dug at the veins with purpose, as he would a field
His tiny brow furrowed, his miniature overalls covered in blood.
What was he searching for ?
Every pick of his perfect axe
Was in time with my beating heart
And the tiny sway of my hairs
Were like corn in the breeze.
I could smell rain in the air and sighed.
As tears ran down my cheeks.
He looked up and stopped
‘There’s a storm coming.’ He whispered.
To me? To the sky?
‘There’s a storm coming and you are going to die.’