The wicked engines spin in darkness
over a field of craggy amethyst
that will see no light.
Here is where they make monsters.
Here is where they make
that special kind of dark,
that works its way into your bones-
The wild screams of bombs,
that take and take and take-
they make them here, deliver them to
children and prostrate mothers.
They forge the rattle, the cascade of shells
to rain on Darfur.
Sometimes the gyros whisper out
insecurities and cancer,
spin threads of acid to
choke and melt away-
Sometimes they stand motionless,
magnetic forces push-pull
at our core, slowly rotating us out of joint
wearing, grinding until we begin to tear-
The infinite impersonal engines
live here, fabricating hell.
Author notes
Im tired.
A contest entry
- because i feel like it.... (options) by VerminVomit.
1300 points, ended November 2, 2008, 23 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
-
a great poem,
but i dont get how it relates to my wordbank... -
this is really good, lvoel written
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