Costume changes and consequences --
I am saved by my enemy's
lies he tells himself of me.
I correct them compulsively:
murder versus suicide,
the Ides of March
have thunder thighs
and never stop heralding
their approach.
The man-size cockroach
my charge swore
leapt out at us
hissed to disappear
behind a Cheshire grin.
Gunfire and the din
of inexpert punishment:
Am I the final teacher of insults?
The only adult
in a room filled with children?
Anguish and pain
as delectation.
Is hope writhing
in the bottom of a box
the sociopath stores his masks in?
Pandora snaps it shut and swoons --
I've yet to see a man on the moon
and too soon knew the lash
interstellar travelers in a flash
wielded; they stopped short
when this white trash done sung his tune.
How many died upon being told
that help is on the way?
"No pun intended,"
sneered the man
who put those victims
where he should have been.
No comments:
Post a Comment