Free at Least

by February 12, 2014 0 comments

Something about the melancholy,
“fuck you” comes out as a strangled cry,
call for help and a declaration of no war.

Armistice heavy at my side.

Wheat waving at the end of
gladiator life, walking into fields,
a road that leads to heart’s content.

Maybe not.

Old age and ears close to the harsh
sound of mouths’ invective, I can pretend
to never hearing and it brings me peace.


Close eyes and blood disappears into
the memory of red drip falling on my
sword, lips mumble saying I will fight no more


Plowshares, I can farm out goodness
like a co-op, the million monkeys typing
out my last will and testament, beneficiaries


God is in the silence, the Devil
is in the details, a clean sweep with
a dirty broom, excrement excommunicated

And I find religion here.

Knocking on a battered door,
I can do little less than answer.

editors note:

Pious pretense? Whatever our conscious constructs, validity is vetted by the most expedient illusion; so long as we’re free… at least. – mh

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