Bitter echos make empty threats
across a metal sky.
As we speak the static of the wounded,
spit in the sky gods eye.
Yet we hold tight our threats,
spilt the breast of the heavens.
Bathe in the warmth of blood,
whilst the devil counts six and seven.
Yet to no avail!
For threats won't hold to reason,
with tendrils of ivy
blooming with black flower;
to choke those high and mighty.
To bring children to their knees!
Children dressed in business suits
with briefcases going out to play.
Who fight to the likes of five year olds
and place blame when the bed is made.
A contest entry
- Play. by xxRainbowDawnxx.
460 points, ended February 5, 2008, 3 entries
Bronze trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
-
Love your take on the prompt. I can hear all these words echo in the distance of my mind. Nicely done!
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