Almost exhausted, she traipses,
Following her lonely path,
Slaloming dizzily, as yet unsurrendered,
Between row upon uniform row.
Dragging wearied feet and dulling toes,
Our Goddess of life, mourns the defeated.
Their sunken, drunken souls beneath,
Lie answerless to her cries.
Torn flags and mildewed pendants flutter,
Flap-tatterings of the rotten born,
Fresh reddened deep gutters of dying screams,
Innocent journeys, destroyed by dreamers,
Of powerful futures that all of us pay,
As the pennies of many keep those of the few
In riches untold, and I fucking puke, on you bastards,
Dining on lobsters whenever you choose.
Your menu would better be maggoty sandwiches,
Mould, shit and bandages, cooked just for you.
Come, taste the ravages, formed from your savages,
Washed with our blood at the trench café.
For mothers and fathers and aunts and the rest,
The taste of their tears is all that there is.
Mourning in pendulum grief must they pass,
Tombstone to tombstone, mile upon mile.
And what of our Goddess, creator of life,
What do we leave her, how to explain,
That her perfectly wonderful, brilliant plan,
Was ripped at the hands of the powered insane?
Too late are we thinking: “what does this mean?”
As stopping at last, where her own upright stands,
She falls to her death, at the end of a dream,
Taking her place, as dark shadows shroud,
The uprights of the fallen.
(08.11.23)
(Edited 24.03.24)
(Edited 12.10.24)
appetite-2-write 