they're still writing
those ****** poems
about not being
broken themselves
in the cuddles of dear
daddy?
give them five years if 18...
not one more poem
from them,
slacked emotional
intelligence
and thoughts
preoccupied with
debts to their former selves, a
vanquished memory of former
agile expression of some ******
whirlwind ideal;
my heart's an iron maiden,
i know the pecking crow at it
with its croak, like prometheus
knew the eagle pecking at his liver;
indeed the boy that signalled
barbarossa's barrel to roll and crack
once the crows returned in a tsunami throng
for the emperor to rise from bending knees
for futile prayer and never reaching jerusalem.