I will not lament, or languish in sad days,

sandy dunes or watery graves, inside a

tulip’s petals or outside of a windy bar,

for when the when was less than then,

and I was a speck inside of a flyblown

grin; nor will I rhyme on purpose, for a

once again man, trying to incite, that

which is the cruelest, that which alarms

us and scars us; see shores on fire, and

towns asunder? no… no patron of anger

can tempt my danger, nor shred my

trust, for once among us, we shared a

love like brothers, but now I wonder,

where it has gone, and yet the mother,

once a maven of disaster, hangs ever

on, like a shattered mirror, blunt and

torn; no, I will not rhyme for you, I will

not make a song out of your lessons, no

past nor present, names careful and instant,

no rhyme good enough for you; this:

a tale I won’t sing again, past your

sailor’s cap and bound to a shattered

man’s last, dying breath blowing wind

into your ear, my call to hear, blatant

and windswept, you’ll crawl like the

maggot, in the eyes of death, a cupid

of pain, arrows always sharp and blamed,

before I stray into the bullet’s path,

again, or ever again, the mess is left,

once more, in the door, darkened whore.


~ by Shawn M. Young on March 10, 2017.

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