Do you hear them falling?
Their impact amounts to instant violence,
chaos without purpose, senseless.
Ok... Perhaps not the entire truth...
The purpose, if we agree one exists,
boils down to pure delight
in once again raising the spectre of fright.
You've learned this the hard way,
crawling, maimed, your head down
among the weeds, minding your Ps and Qs.
Inured, you endure the explosions without flinching
and rehearse the drill in your mind, while remaining
quiet, super-still, and present.
A direct hit would leave you floating,
a ghost – unattached – among the thorns,
the penalty for having once believed,
the price of admission to this exclusive club.
Dismembership the only potential outcome or boon
to status or statistic. Take your pick.
Blood spatters made to look
as bright as passionate avowals,
heart-rending confessions of promises unkept;
when you know, beyond a shadow,
drawing and quartering are the next frame
in this deliberate enactment.
You carry this loss of faith – a burning coal
against your body – a subversive insurrection
to counter the air strikes, fire with fire.
YOU ARE READING
Out of this Earth
PoetryMusings on the luminous sometimes whimsical world of human love: Bring your heart to the Garden for a feast of Earthly delights but come prepared for unexpected twists and dark turns along the way.
