The white hot lie beckons of rationale Yet veils its heat so children might yowl In everlasting conflict with reality. Boom! Counterfeit words tumble through teeth Eye to eye in emblazoned speech To a sycophant prophetic acclaim. Boom! Thundering plainly, blindly to genuflect At the blood-spattered feet of death And propel air-sucked sin upon them. Boom! No poetry in the lopped limbs of despair And no verse reckons their woeful prayer But words oft shout down their plight. Boom! No prose in the whistling bomb’s release, No hope in a child’s explosion of grief Save for strapping `round vengeance. Boom! Turn, heavy and blistering irons! Retreat! Be done with your contemptuous deceit! There is no poetry in it, None...
Yet veils its heat so children might yowl
In everlasting conflict with reality.
Boom!
Counterfeit words tumble through teeth
Eye to eye in emblazoned speech
To a sycophant prophetic acclaim.
Boom!
Thundering plainly, blindly to genuflect
At the blood-spattered feet of death
And propel air-sucked sin upon them.
Boom!
No poetry in the lopped limbs of despair
And no verse reckons their woeful prayer
But words oft shout down their plight.
Boom!
No prose in the whistling bomb’s release,
No hope in a child’s explosion of grief
Save for strapping `round vengeance.
Boom!
Turn, heavy and blistering irons! Retreat!
Be done with your contemptuous deceit!
There is no poetry in it,
None...
Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman