They look like dead corpses
Aligned on the dry ground
Before the rain
Washes off dirt and blood
From their clothes,
From their nails,
Before the picture is taken
For newspapers and courts
For History books
To record the event,
The seeds of guilt
Sown for posterity.
They are lifeless
Abandoned
Not identified yet.
One after the other
They’re brought
As bare objects,
Pitiful proof
Of men’s vengeful mind,
Of weapons loaded with hate
Not for anything particular
just to play the good old game
of war that takes lives
leaving women there, to cry.
Today I write
And yet…
My words look like dead corpses
On a blanket of despair
Until a woman wants to carry them
In the warmth of her belly
And then leaves them to defy the laws
Of ancestral, inexplicable warfare,
Waiting…
For ideas to be blown into them,
from a tunnel that will lead
with a thousand lamps of brass
to gain meaning and to breathe.
Where do all the dead words go when they die? ...I just was wondering. Perhaps when they're dead they take on a ghostly kind of aura that haunts... You'll be dreaming, and you'll hear this "the uh.. the.. uh..uh..uh, Thhhhh uh...uh." You wake up, clutching your heart. Phantasmic words that wont stay buried. We conjur up knew meanings for them-- new puns and colorful images for them.
or.. or maybe they go to Burger King to be deep-fat fried. "Yeah. I'll have the double "of" burger with an extra slice of "happy"-- don't forget the "they" sauce-- and all on a "busy" seed bun. Oh, and with an order of "common" fries on the side." Sure, it's easy to say, but can you chew it?
Or maybe still, they get ground up into pigments, where great artists use them to paint excellent black outlines and faint little colors.
Or maybe they go to a poetry sea, where all the awful love-scrawled poems end up (because Elizabeth Bennet says bad poetry will quell a lover) and they lie, while you paddle your boat, and collectively they make an impossibly beautiful intention-- invention-- in-mention.
--just rambling on and on with boring words... POOF -- I blow -- and they fly like birds into the air... (Rivaling Wm Cryer for longest commentary)
A story with original photography, digital art, and illustration, about Son of Waves, 12 Dolphins to save the planet, David The Visionary on the beach in Tel Aviv, a digital messiah, and an internet of Love. Free PDF download.
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Sandie Angel :o)
Fee
The why's of war shall last forever and unfortunately the anwers will always remain buried with the words. Love, Peace and Blessings Always, Paul.
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
or.. or maybe they go to Burger King to be deep-fat fried. "Yeah. I'll have the double "of" burger with an extra slice of "happy"-- don't forget the "they" sauce-- and all on a "busy" seed bun. Oh, and with an order of "common" fries on the side." Sure, it's easy to say, but can you chew it?
Or maybe still, they get ground up into pigments, where great artists use them to paint excellent black outlines and faint little colors.
Or maybe they go to a poetry sea, where all the awful love-scrawled poems end up (because Elizabeth Bennet says bad poetry will quell a lover) and they lie, while you paddle your boat, and collectively they make an impossibly beautiful intention-- invention-- in-mention.
--just rambling on and on with boring words... POOF -- I blow -- and they fly like birds into the air... (Rivaling Wm Cryer for longest commentary)
Be safe,
Karen