(metaflower by Ben Heine)
Too ashen! Too hidden!
Like some plodding prayer
Mouthed under sultry breath,
Lobbed skyward beneath
The demoralizing weight of gravity
Reluctant of its dulled and hollowed plea.
The shoddy wilt, the red droop
Of oppressions scope, maudlin loyalty.
Who the hell needs an optimism
Carrying a loaded M21 Horizon,
Or a prayer with the weight of a tank?
“It’s too massive!”, cried the saint.
The gates of life swing wide
For caskets draped in flags!
Who the hell needs this hope
So weighted down with loss?
Prayers with the dead weight of children?
“It’s too distressing!”, cried the angels...
The tortured garden! Insatiable craving
Of the hideous instruments of ruin
Planting young seeds too early
In the loud, bone-dry ground
Cultivating, not life, but odium.
“It’s too thunderous!” cried God.
Too ashen! Too hidden!
Like some plodding prayer
Mouthed under sultry breath,
Lobbed skyward beneath
The demoralizing weight of gravity,
Reluctant of its dulled and hollowed caress.
© 2008 mrp/thepoetryman
