By J. A. Weymouth
Weighed down by glass columns,
Their repetitious hand gestures,
And made up backstabbing
All were for trouble and war.
Simple changes from thought of mountains,
Awful skyless horizons – hindered.
The metal ark reaches and dips itself
Into horrid carcasses.
Made by a scattering, a calamity
Amongst solemn promise-breakers
They join – hands together,
To the ready. And fire off into an unknown
Dirt and blood will be described in poems.
Members. They shake. Healthy and wicked.
A fountain of blood is too obvious.
So, the path will devour – watchless and
A titter of a wave in their millions
drowning the folks with a tremor.
Ribbon red over white faces – no vermillion.
John would kill his brother.
Something alone to be gone,
A shiver in the cave – a whimper.
Why should we shape a man to none?
Figuring with numbers and with no breather?
No scars. No humiliation.