The White Flag is Willingly Taciturn
The over-weaponized army marches
as gun-shells spill from open mouths
still wide from the war four years ago,
while the “torchbearers” rev
by a new fuel, untapped, standing by.
We, with the phantom-shrapnel pain
in our chests, watch from our balconies
as they burn the parchment-paper dream
only to cradle our conscience safely
because this is a war we never signed up for,
and thus, “not our battle” so, the white flag
we raise waves in smoke-brindle winds,
a hush, taciturn, when our voices
wielded properly, could be javelins.
The extended-release capsule sinks inside
and dives through these intestines like Smaug
relishing his treasure-horde.
As the clock strikes two,
this placid lava-body melts into laminate floor,
threatens to heave with each serotonin-sear.
This planet-body’s core spins, then tumbles
until its innards begin to quake,
until synapses spark thunderstorms above.
Every night this ribcage caves
before its torn asunder because
that’s what it takes for this desert to rain,
because a smile seems worth the cost,
an effortless breath worth the pain
of a forced chemical transfiguration.
chants “amen” at every word
spoke, a weekly loop
as tawdry chandeliers sag [sad],
heavy on their chains.
An eight-year-old boy
shuffles his Bible, releases
in an array of color [until]
they fall out upon his lap
As the grown ups pray
to the angels lead astray,
he plays with laminated
butterflies, and dreams [desperately]
he’s far away, carried out
on their solid backs
because his angels are strong,
made of an alloy,
an unshakeable armor, [numb]
cyborg robbed of gossamer.