THREE TIRED VERSES: POETRY

WAR

Voiceless screams echoing deep within;
Shocked, blood bleached visage;
The caricature of a painted clown
Mourning the end of a crown.

Swords drawn; the stilling whine of steel,
Stoking flames fevering souls;
Rage born of a nation's pain
Spins out of control to the end of a race.

Blood red battle; corpses in odd poses,
Bleeding smiles from new lips.
The macabre delight of the warped contortionist,
Gripping the earth in cold embrace.

Flapping crows; black wings blanketing the burning sky,
Tear beaks into cold flesh and eyeballs,
Livers and hearts, someone's balls;
Oh the abattoir of the bloodless many.

War! Squabbling kings,
Generals spanning maps,
Soldiers; dying en masse.
Just a quarrel over love and life;
A quarrel between kings.

SOMEONE LIKE YOU

The brown tree thrusts its gnarled hands into the puffy clouds,
Waving anguished fingers at the spirited breeze
Billowing across the shabby forest.

The gnarled hands grasps at little blobs of golden rays,
Dashing across the darkened depths
Like studded golden beads
On a black dress at a funeral for the earth.

The little rays of the golden sun
Splash across the sea of gnarled leaves
To fall on the blackened stream
Echoing of a screaming, brutal rape.

The blackened stream carves a path,
A name, on the tortured earth,
Leaving dead things in its wake,
As big eyed fish bubble up, pale.

Dead things like that burning corpse
Bent in an angle as if to dig into the depthless earth,
The swollen scorched earth;
Staring, yellow eyed, eyeing the blue sky.

Burnt body of someone i used to know and hold dear;
A father figure or brother mine;
A friendly foe or sister wife.

Someone like those others,
Sketched on that burnt length in varied poses;
Stretched fingers melded with plastic gallons,
Hunting wealth in a haunted plot;
Someone like you, my friend.

A SUITABLE END

The striking of drums,
The lining of old hurts,
Slipping through memory to hug crumpled paper dreams.
The opening of a cocoon to the wings of the cold wind,
The end of every life;
All these are a tale that seeks an ending.

The voices have ceased their whining,
The food is finished;
The ants have built their grain bags tight,
The floor is cleaned of debris.
It is night, the mosquitoes, they bite
And the song, it dangles from its crushed throat.

The light comes slowly,
As I watch the flickering shadows
Of your skirt slide out the door
And the echo of your ticklish laugh,
Spread through my skin,
Like a breaking surf returning back to sea;
This is some suitable end.

These are verses that whisper of what pain can be like. Each of the poems tell a different story and in each you will find some part of you. Take these verses, sit with them, sip a cup of coffee with them and let them lie beside you in slumber. Stay safe.

Image sources: pixabay

Peace

©@warpedpoetic

art and flair courtesy of @PegasusPhysics