I.
The pen
Taps
Against my leadened desk,
All reverberating echoes and
Roaring staccatos:
Something to keep the soldiers
Rooted
In the chalkboard trenches alive-
A cackling reminder of
Freedom.
II.
Peeled away is the blissful world of
Morphine-addled haze
And round edges
The smell of pine trees
And Monday Vendetta.
Up in smoke.
Offered to the gods.
The great big furnace in the sky—
I carry them with me in an ashen urn.
As the days pass
A rhythmic stutter
Lumps
At the bottom of my throat.
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 8:35 AM UTC
I.
The pen
Taps
Against my leadened desk,
All reverberating echoes and
Roaring staccatos:
Something to keep the soldiers
Rooted
In the chalkboard trenches alive-
A cackling reminder of
Freedom.
II.
Peeled away is the blissful world of
Morphine-addled haze
And round edges
The smell of pine trees
And Monday Vendetta.
Up in smoke.
Offered to the gods.
The great big furnace in the sky—
I carry them with me in an ashen urn.
As the days pass
A rhythmic stutter
Lumps
At the bottom of my throat.
School's back. No real inquiries, just anxieties. And a whole lot of longing.
