Cider in the Park.

The cans of cider hit the mark

Druid or some such anomalous name

druids in paper thin aluminium cans

surrounded by razor sharp lips

but there is always one,
even in this summer gathering of lost souls
temporarily stranded under an ancient sun

the one that bares his canine teeth 
lupine

eyes aback in dark lairs

blinded and wary

hair bristling on haunched shoulders

constantly under attack

from within

I taste his dripping saliva with my eyes

but feel no fear

where I have gone

no one can hurt

no one can follow

I have control

and only I am the instrument of my own suffering.

This maybe be survival, 
but can never be salvation.

© niall oconnor 2015