Mouth wide open,
Tongue forked like a snake
No one claims this child.
Insistent cries from hell to heaven,
Drowned by the sound of the harp.
The child’s fingers shaped like a rake,
His face pitted and wild.
No welcome for the heathen,
Ignored as if hidden under a tarp.
He crawls back to Devil’s Lake,
Where he was originally defiled.
©2015 Karina Pinella