Tuesday, July 3, 2018

Le mal dans la malle.


His black coal eyes glare.

He takes those books and throws them in the trunk.

A rusted axe, a battered door, a broken lock.

In goes the family silver.

In goes the skeletons.

In goes those shrieks of pain.

In goes his monster frame.

In goes sanctimony.

In goes alimony.

In goes pedophilia, necrophilia, hymns and prayers.

DEAD.
BURIED.
NOT DEEP ENOUGH YET.

Her black kohl eyes glare.

He takes those looks and throws them in the trunk.

A scratched arm, a battered door, a broken plate.

He takes his shame and folds it roughly in the trunk.

He sits on the lid to hold it down.

Climbing down the grave.

I shovel earth.

I beat it down, 

It grasses over.

Sitting on the hummock, we feels their spirit...


We'll be leaving our sorrow.
There'll be sun to morrow.

Le mal est dans la malle.

DEAD.
BURIED.
NOT DEEP ENOUGH YET?




No comments:

Post a Comment