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The white hot lie beckons of rationale
Yet veils its heat so children might yowl
In everlasting conflict with reality.
Counterfeit words tumble through teeth
Eye to eye in emblazoned speech
To a sycophant prophetic acclaim.
Thundering plainly, blindly to genuflect
At the blood-spattered feet of death
And propel air-sucked sin upon them.
No poetry in the lopped limbs of despair
And no verse reckons their woeful prayer
But words oft shout down their plight.
No prose in the whistling bomb’s release,
No hope in a child’s explosion of grief
Save for strapping `round vengeance.
Turn, heavy and blistering irons! Retreat!
Be done with your contemptuous deceit!
There is no poetry in it,
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman
Saturday, September 23, 2006
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