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Dec 2017
Weighted steel tugged by gravity,
A mile above this tranquil house–
its payload designed so carefully–
is yet unreleased from the mouth,
for there is danger involved:
I’ve hung Pandora’s box
And it, wont to fall,
Damns as it drops.
slowly swells desire–
a bloodlust is taking hold
for a world entombed in Fire.
The image of a once happy home
Brought with only a directed word
to dissolve into shadowed foundation,
Encouraged by petty quarrels endured,
Matures to become a palpable creation –
resentment resides within every thought
and fiery images are fanned ‘til they fuse
In a flash into sound, suddenly brought
On a table within a voluminous brew
of word, sentence, and ireful mind,
And the room is left in silence.
In the wake I stand, alone,
uttering penitence.
Written by
Pat Broadbent  20/M/New York
(20/M/New York)   
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