[ 3. 21 ]
yesterday, this "no angel" of yours
had given everyone her last feather,
flying was nearly impossible
and she was about to crash.
she came to you for a hand, a push,
something,
instead, you ripped the wings off her back,
sent her on her way, then
told her she had some nerve not to fly
and set her out within the public
to be stoned by the masses.
her first instance of failure to comply
showed your true colors, Cyanide.
today your "no angel" picked her poison,
the lovely formaldehyde,
(called toxic by you, miss Cyanide)
stuck with what she knows...
will you stone her again?
YOU ARE READING
past oblivion.
Poetry"what can i really say?" used to be my words, when i didn't know as much. when i got older, i responded to myself. "everything." now, i realize that i can use my breath to speak on everything in existence, from dust on jupiter to the depths of hell...
