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TUESDAY (2/24/09)

If you looked hard enough you could see their wings on the rain, coordinated with the wet leaves. Within a single year they will have flown such a great distance. Everywhere, but upright and green. They shall speak but briefly as they’re lifted away, making such awful noise underneath the ground.

O! No one upon this earth stays long- to heft such sorrow on the chest, death, is wrong. To spray the body like some liquid wall with the red and brown and blood of men and without so much as cause is sin.

Around our giant orb there will be no bread to share, nor child spared in crimson misery here, as all is dust and spent and only those few left might say, What a wonderful thing was man.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Bang! Bang! Bang and a rat-a-tat-tat, and a thrum, thump, and squeak! War drums still aflutter after such absolute defeat.

Shrill on the solemn-necked streets was the rule of “one shoot- all shoot” like kids playing a (“Minority Report” style) game of cops and robbers, conceited as a trader Santelli, smug as influence, loud as agony, proud as death.


© 2008 mrp/thepoetryman



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