THE TURNSTILE (The 23rd Violent Verse)

Perhaps we’re not who we thought
we’d be. Maybe we’re flawed, like
weakened trusses, collapsed, memorized
by rote, like a baby falling from our arms.

All the nattering of 2012 has found a home
in us, the end of days written in our heads.
Thoughts manifested with a plunging fury.
And how many of us recognize the history

of marching fanatics and obliteration’s debris?
Violence douses itself in our memories,
like the smell of our lovers sex and the thud
of the baby’s head smacking the ground.

Like torturers, proud; water and screams,
flag and country, domestic and foreign, while
faces puffed in shame allow the tyrant’s fist.
The source of our sadness jumps the turnstile
unnoticed as fresh bruises in a neighbor’s home.

© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman


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