Empire tosses its colossal head on the rooftops of Iraq
And children and mothers and fathers are redeyed of seeking.
They wish to converse of loss, of a gut wrenching pain.
They wish to be free of it, to rend it impotent, joyful.
Near the center of life militant troops beat down doors
Calling out its name, “Terror!” “Terror!” “Terror!”
“We need leave this red hell of our making!
We need pack it up and march ever onward!”
The mammoth head spits down upon them
And wags its bloody tongue toward the east.
It is hungry for more; ravenous for unholy kingdom,
Dried lips smacking its unquenchable thirst.
Kidnapped by its own gluttony it tosses back
And still, redeyed children and mothers and fathers seek it out.
They’ve not had their words yet, they need them.
They wish to be free of it, to rend it lifeless.
Empire tosses its colossal head on the rooftops of Iraq,
(its arms and legs and torso lay dead upon the ground).
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman