shoot the messenger
stick him with the pretty darts
pour tranquility into his veins
be merciful and let him fall
no one wants to know the consequences
of their actions
their muscle twitches air expulsions
that odd force of motion
exiting somewhere between their tearducts
and their ears
all these orifices
with which they-the pitiful-
attempt to challenge fate
warp it -unknowing all- to their desires
so shoot the messenger
before he grasps his doom
Helen is gone
and the war must go on
1 comment:
i've always said (since how long ago?) that the last lines of a poem make it. that being said, excellent.
but- y'know. spell-check. i almost have to stop reading with each typo. they are a big deal to yours truly.
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