poetry corner 027 – Weapons of war.

Prosaic prose, with a dat-tat-tat-tat-dat-ta-tada-ta, I sequence the genome from the safety of the rails. The line. How it stresses and frays my mind, but I’m satisfied to have found the time; elated, I fall blind.

Illiterate, the avenues avenge the stemming fires. Perplexing, I retire, attiring my tired mind. And how the soldiers file their emotions away, amidst the bitter burn; and the lucky strike. From the tides of the time, there is no way to return.

Posturing in anger, flailed beneath and between the faintest exchange, I subvert the managing expectations of a drug-addled brain. Quite the strain, but refrain from echoing this rusted frustration, at the count, you’ll be four hours late, and your drinks will have been paid for; what are you waiting for?

Amen, a man must have a code, a woman must bear her cross. A child climbs the wall, entrenched amidst shifting shades of enemy lines. And commandeering a vehicle, of lies. Coming back with fewer friends, and a greater understanding. Of nothing.

Cannot evade, won’t hide. Running all the while, pass; d’etat, your tags have been registered. Your skeleton crew is in the system. What am I owed for the perils, and dictates. Something comes to mind, head in a jar; my hands remember my gun.

Are we having fun, yet? With our ammendments.
(Turin doesn’t begin to cover it).


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