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Super-Earth
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2011
- Location
- The Hereafter
Greetings fellow deviants of BlueMoon! I've found myself trying poetry of late and figured that posting some of my thoughts here was probably a better end for my works that simply allowing them to rot in one of numerous folders within my documents.
So, I present to you something I wrote last week.
When we went to war,
The claxons rang as the metal birds took flight,
Their mechanical wings and blades leaving jet streams of dripping flames as they made offering of char to the far-distant ground.
When we went to war, I slept until the afternoon,
Devoid of appointments more pressing than a conference with goose down and linen.
The morning was a sordid affair as coffee stung bitter and diner lines rang long,
erstwhile a thousand boots hit the ground,
shattering earth under the weight of their impact,
Carving into the ground crevices from which poured molten waves of tar and lead.
When we went to war, my afterschool route finally lead me to her living room
Concave in my attempts to resist the lull of such a hollow affair.
Offerings of nubile skin as the air turned stale from a drifting stench over the walls,
A stench that seeped into the ground so deep that for 100 years,
it would slowly be drawn by the weeds that dared the audacity to poke their heads beyond the ground,
Defiant by default.
We were at war,
And my life had been consumed,
By the hell of a faulty microwave.
We were at war,
And the wind finally blew cold,
Carrying with it a smattering of plastic edges,
Until it found its way into all the speakers and phones,
Where it blew so long that such a bitter gale was blunted.
When we went to war,
I subsumed myself on a diet of lamb and beer,
Empathetic in my drinks to the intolerable woe,
So far away I had to approximate,
Because:
We were at war.
Criticize as bitterly as you so wish!
So, I present to you something I wrote last week.
When we went to war,
The claxons rang as the metal birds took flight,
Their mechanical wings and blades leaving jet streams of dripping flames as they made offering of char to the far-distant ground.
When we went to war, I slept until the afternoon,
Devoid of appointments more pressing than a conference with goose down and linen.
The morning was a sordid affair as coffee stung bitter and diner lines rang long,
erstwhile a thousand boots hit the ground,
shattering earth under the weight of their impact,
Carving into the ground crevices from which poured molten waves of tar and lead.
When we went to war, my afterschool route finally lead me to her living room
Concave in my attempts to resist the lull of such a hollow affair.
Offerings of nubile skin as the air turned stale from a drifting stench over the walls,
A stench that seeped into the ground so deep that for 100 years,
it would slowly be drawn by the weeds that dared the audacity to poke their heads beyond the ground,
Defiant by default.
We were at war,
And my life had been consumed,
By the hell of a faulty microwave.
We were at war,
And the wind finally blew cold,
Carrying with it a smattering of plastic edges,
Until it found its way into all the speakers and phones,
Where it blew so long that such a bitter gale was blunted.
When we went to war,
I subsumed myself on a diet of lamb and beer,
Empathetic in my drinks to the intolerable woe,
So far away I had to approximate,
Because:
We were at war.
Criticize as bitterly as you so wish!