Martyr has a machine gun
a magic wand trained on the man,
aimed at the head, arc of destruction planned
for the mark with the wicked hands,
who winces through blood-blind visions
staring and stammering,
quixotic pupils straining to scan for
nonexistent paths of escape.
Garrulous explications paint the anecdotes
he expectorates like the gore that drips
precariously from swollen lips- they undulate-
saccharine incantations, meant to negate his fate.
Barrel lording, unrelenting,
gazing on fresh lacerations,
mark genuflects, articulates
praises to an astral savior-
split lips spit his requisition-
pleas for forgiveness, for restitution
mindful all the while he’ll receive no reply.
Barrel lording, unrelenting,
mind decoding the difference,
the distance from adoration to hate.
His daughter frolics to mind,
all summer afternoons and pomegranate rinds.
Her reaction, seeing him die...
Wicked hands drop the machine gun.
The wand holds magic no longer
for the martyr who marked himself.
No comments:
Post a Comment