It will come, not on the mouth of your washed-up soul
Or on a street corner bathed in shadow,
The kind of dark that smothers granite
Or leaves us puffed face, up, smiling
In a glossy satisfaction.
It will be sudden,
Swift, yet after the bell tolls.
It will begin by bringing you to silence
And thrashing your bitter faced pretense,
You and your ilk-hollow drone.
You’ll drop, like sullen eyes toward a deformed child,
Cascading to the aching earth.
It will be painless for you and your kind, a void.
Like your soul, it will crave its own worthlessness.
Like a junky without a fix,
Senseless, graceless, ineloquent and quick.
Your hand in this, traitor,
Will not go unnoticed,
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman