#1997-414 property of the state
: sorry this not that poem
raised block flower & plant bed.
peonies, gardenias, poinsettias
plus a yellow orb slow-rising
over an endless golden scape—
darting through uncluttered space
cardinals, thrashes, sparrows
blue air fragrant with lavender
washing brain matter into virtue.
if only i could pastel language
onto a canvas of thistledown
yes, deceit comes to mind—
.a lie. traitor. turncoat. recreant
backstabber to truth i would be
gut-shanked a thousand times.
this is not that poem nor am i
that poet to hold your hand
.or. erase knot-hole screams
blood on a cement floor .or.
suicide is another form of escape
no-no-no—but i do promise
the evil-ugly humans inflict
to each other to their [selves]
how time is malice is death
enflaming pupils with spite
inextinguishable if ever set free—
forgive state poet #1997-414
for not scribbling illusions
of trickery as if timeless hell
could be captured by stanzas
alliteration or slant rhyme—
2020-05-16 18:31:47
8
0