Promised Reward for Fools

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The souls of all those aching fools
are mulched with the broken bonds of glory
and cacophony of undeliverable
goods: swept up wings
of beautiful angels or sultry virgins waiting
in paradise for suicides blown to kingdom come –
the only kingdom deep in the depths of righteousness
under ashen beads of sweat.
They cry beneath their toil when all have left
them forgotten in dank, gritted dirt,
Graves roll over like fond heather
when purple prayers are laid to rest
along with all signs of peace.
Time and again they pour themselves
into the ground hoping rotten weeds
will allow them breathing room
‘til their passage, but slithering tongues
try to lick them clean while both crawl
on bellies over and through
withered twig fingers still wedded
to propaganda’s grenades and its rusted
rings. Lifeless, hollow, frigid eyes
desperately seek out the light
among a scurry of morbid shadows.
Cold pitiful screams muffled by cold clay
means in the end, there is no glory
or kingdom, vineyards and exquisite drinks
dripped by virgins in a life ever after – all bets
are off.

 

 

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Pane #Quadrille

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Tapping rain becomes the omen,
blackbirds pecked once here before,
feeding at your safety harness
before the window cut through your shade
and more; crumpled, slain, within your own
reflection, you are shattered glass singing
shrill and bleakly, before quietly resting,
as confetti floor.

Lilac #Quadrille

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Smother my pulse
in timeless grains of sand,
let its broken glass bedeck
my wrists
where stranded pearls, no longer wise,
once worshiped summer’s heroes.
My lilac demise
is well hidden from winter,
long gone without me –
time is all that is left.

*A Quadrille is a verse consisting of 44 words.