Taught expeditiously,
to trill and,
squawk.

The reveille rings at 4 o’clock.

Another day of genuflection,
to the corpulent,
boreal lords.

Canvassing the favour of gewgaws.

Remain phlegmatic and dream of vernal shores.

An axiomatic life.
Doff the uniform,
end the strife.

I am rancorous.

Trapped in a seine,
I feel the Quahogs pain.

Supercilious they act but planarians,
they are,
in fact.

Actions an aspersion of our land.
Deleterious by mine own hands.

A paroxysm,
none could succour,
burst from me.

I will not be consumptive of the puppeteers strings.
Their ways are diametric to my beliefs.
I have to leave.

Caught as I tried to escape.
Now I will indefinitely,
stay.

Told I would be divested of my head.
“Acephalous”,
they said.

Supplicating for my life.
No pique for my strife.
In this hoosegow,
I will die.

A lonesome stone they lay,
tagging the interred mans grave.
Brothers mark it with his sobriquet,
simply;

‘MAY’

 

Responses

  1. cougarhawk8

    This reads like a soldier’s lament, and my heart aches for every one of them. To choose between what is expected and said to be necessary, and what feels right, is a choice no soul should ever be forced to make…

    And yes, I am well aware that I am interpreting this according to my own biases, but such is the magic of poetry, no? That each reader should invest something of themselves into the finished work. 🙂

    Well done, this!

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