We’re holding out our colors, staring into the
Sun, its beam of traumatized expressions,
Our foreseeing the breaking of a noontime
That raises its hand, summons the leak of nightfall
And runs down the face in a reddening cascade.
We are cleaved to a striking second, a screaming seed
Of dread, like a child’s face meeting with the edge of
Something angry, the gash of a white-hot cacophony.
It is a tale as old as the soil, a story of cruelty, of
The beating blue lines on our necks. O our victory,
Our triumph! We can claim our prize in one breath
And smash it to bits before the next!
Our tale is far from over, we've things to conquer,
Cambers of flesh to split in anger, mounds of glee
To murder with our unsteady hands, shafts of daylight
Calm to shatter like a stack of plates falling down,
The powder of color falling all around us, triumphant
Confetti for a heroes welcome.
© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
Sun, its beam of traumatized expressions,
Our foreseeing the breaking of a noontime
That raises its hand, summons the leak of nightfall
And runs down the face in a reddening cascade.
We are cleaved to a striking second, a screaming seed
Of dread, like a child’s face meeting with the edge of
Something angry, the gash of a white-hot cacophony.
It is a tale as old as the soil, a story of cruelty, of
The beating blue lines on our necks. O our victory,
Our triumph! We can claim our prize in one breath
And smash it to bits before the next!
Our tale is far from over, we've things to conquer,
Cambers of flesh to split in anger, mounds of glee
To murder with our unsteady hands, shafts of daylight
Calm to shatter like a stack of plates falling down,
The powder of color falling all around us, triumphant
Confetti for a heroes welcome.
© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
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