Soaring through the clouds
The hawk observes his next meal
Dropping in to dine
Brian Hill - 2019 # 325
Cycle of life.
I sat at my dad's bedside as he squirmed and moaned in pain,
It hurt me to see him like that,
I prayed the whole night.
Then early hours of the morning
his countenance changed,
He looked at peace,
Were my prayers answered?
Was my father recovering?
He smiled broadly looking at me lovingly,
"Dear the Angel Of Death has come,
HE says my place for breakfast at the table with God is ready,
It's beautiful dear."
And breathed his last.
There she goes
Girls file into line
Three by three
Knee length skirts
Down the aisle
Tell me yours and I'll tell you mine
Prayers morning, noon, and night
Careful now, They're prepared to smite
Up the Stairs
Now we dine
And then off to bed
One "lucky" girl gets to practice head
The tallest tower
She's had too much sacramental wine
Hands touched and caressed
And she felt far from blessed
Down she jumps
Touched by filthy swine
"what a horrible disaster"
Her eulogy given by that same pastor
The Devil moves on
In the linoleum dungeon
Sparkling swiffer creature
Squirts the floor
Calls polyphemic odors
And the crazy stench of allspice
Biting lime and draconian breath
Burning the nostril coins
Copper shield bending the cilia
Oven mitts plastered with narcotic grease and decomposing meals
She speaks between steaming inspirations
Exhale the fire
It's'a hotta pasta lasagna
As the helicopters flap their handy rotories
Fast fractal birds
In circumfereferential motion
Cool down our mouths
Ice cubes in the juice
Plop a shot of gin
With that silly child's grin
And the room slowly cants
Begins to spin
As we laugh at the spots we cannot
Staring at the stellar mountain chains
Stabbing up into the sky
Where is the home beyond the horizon
Where we ate good meals
Not made alone
With parental guidance
As the days were stolen
By the erosive time
That spinning wheel
It's deep in us now
And the cells metastasized
That heaven is hell.
The leftovers are laying on the plate,
it’s almost Half past eight.
The Fork and knife knightley laid,
on the tablecloth casting a shade.
On the plate there has been left a trace,
of the food from a chinese take out place.
Beneath the table a red stiletto heel,
that is probably all he can feel.
Slowly raising the glass of wine,
it’s a die and dine.
Glairying on the silver reflection,
how about he is shown a little affection.
The black hair in his eyes.
He is a human so centralized.
But once he loses focus on what is happening,
he will feel his whole life blackening.
praise the sun
dance in the moonlight
the devil called me his son
she controls the world
because she is my girl
sun and moon clash