…….A chieftain of the first man, from the first clan, opened his arms and hands to reveal the beginning and end of man; it was a rock flung from a slingshot that put a grown man back in the cradle, he held his shirtless body in his arms, as blood poured from his head wound to his navel; this will be our end, said the chieftain with a godly tone, he was killed by one of our own, surely this isn’t our problem alone. Tribal members stood in confusion as their chief stirred a cooking pot with a human bone.
-
Author:
EvenwheniLie (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: June 4th, 2023 21:15
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 1
- Users favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek
Offline)
Comments1
it never ends, does it?
we've need a revolution, to make amends
for our last revolution, since
archaic days of might, made right
soon, we'll get it right
instead of slingshot stones
those Hiroshima devastations
will really, get the job done...
but even, then
there will be a chieftain, tripping on stage
or stirring hiss skull pot
and telling, TALL tales
of a past glory, distorted by dystopian
fog
.. all while, a poet
sends smoke signals to posterity
to record it all, dreaming
of a more poetic experience
of existence
You’re dead on; we’ve deluded ourselves into believing pure intelligence and logic is driving our sciences, when in reality it is our fears and desires (prejudice) that move and direct human endeavors
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.