Douglas Morgan and Penny Jones

Douglas Morgan raised a long arm,
up from bent down,crooked body
and bark colored carpet
covering his tree-limb-bones.
His moss beard hung long
from tired, sharp skin
pinned on by endless ear lobes
and eye sockets,
both housed nocturnal insects
that emerged after he found rest.
A deep groan seeped
from the cracks in his skin
as he reached higher
with one arm.

Penny Jones, a heron,
perched high above
the groaning Douglas Morgan,
peers down gracefully
from moon-beamed eyes.
She did not smile,
neither did Old Douglas,
who's arms streached closer,
growing long, cracking, moaning
and swaying with ever inch.
Penny Jones wore a top-hat
with a yellow flower,
its smell colored her feathers red.

Douglas Morgan, rooted down,
hard beneath Penny's feet,
he grew vines from his finger nails,
and wrapped tight around Penny's wings,
squeezing her red feathers,
sending ooze down
Douglas' mangled vines.

Penny Jones, melted in Douglas'
grip, parted with her top-hat
and yellow flower,
now laying, crooked
in tangled red vines
kept in Douglas Morgan's crackleing hands.