The sinner, so hopelessly lost.
The beaches of Normandy, so eerily vacant.
A fog is rolling in.
The red sun flickers blue.
Into their ears, She is always whispering.
Dictators. Martyrs. Butchers. Naysayers.
They are all pawns of a much larger game.
Her vile, rotten game.
No stone left unturned.
Not a single worm in the soil.
The men. The women. The children.
The dog. The cat. The goldfish.
The crib. The dinner-table. The television.
Your lives are forfeit in Her eyes.
The sinner, so hopelessly damned.
There is but one road ahead.
Let him out.
Do you forgive me?
Yes.
Cheeky bitcH—
If there is an eighth, there will surely be a ninininninininininININI89898989898989899999999999999999999999999999999999999
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CADAVERS JUBILANT VOICE IT SOARS
IT BOUNCES OFF OF THE WAVES
IT ZOOMS THROUGH THE POLLUTED AIR
IT ATTRACTS THE VULTURES AND MAGGOTS
it compares it contrasts the voices will surely last
the townsfolk witnessed a ghastly sight
a wicked woman roaming in the woods
eyes of venomous purple and black
RABBIT GIRL IN THE CASINO HAS GONE MAD
CONSTANT INTRUSION OF THE EAR CANAL
THE IMPUDENT MEN SPEW IGNORANT LIES
HOLDING RETAIL WORKERS HOSTAGE
the disgusting routine has been interrupted
the writhing girl diagnosed with alexithymia
nonchalantly saying the worst things out loud
how do people even show their faces online
THAT DESPERATE EFFORT TO BE DIFFERENT
TO THINK DIFFERENTLY
TO BE UNIQUE
TO BE UNLIKE THE REST
is for naught.
Yet, my fingers still ache.
-
Author:
Ryan Modawell (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: November 10th, 2021 23:38
- Comment from author about the poem: The mind is plagued with constant pleasant anomalies.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 7
Offline)
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