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Wicked
by Meghan HelmichAll the pretty razor faces
biting for treasure in the sunken town
can mean only one thing:
doubt will always be the best defense.
Even with the slight
fever and red knees,
God never remembers my secrets.
Hopeful and blinking
in the darkness, psalms of desperation bring
justice to the indignant and
kill everything in a five minute radius.
Let me be the first to point blame at the
men who reckon that truth
never led anyone to health.
Over time the best inhibitions
punctured the blessed visions of
queens, and you can be sure that
reason does exist, even at this height.
Season after season of this hearty
tenderness makes us into sad trumpets.
Unfortunately, no one told the
vicious hands to smudge their charcoal and
wrench the possibilities into the mouths of
xenophobic fathers beginning to blossom.
You never can tell with these things -
zero to speed of light when the bulb finally shatters. 04/25/2012 Author's Note: What do you get from this?
Posted on 04/25/2012
Copyright © 2024 Meghan Helmich
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 04/26/12 at 01:04 AM I get some of your most compelling, beautiful, disturbing imagery I think I've ever seen. I get someone who could probably get a thousand more ideas from this one alone. It definitely feels like the start of something. I love everything about this. |
| Posted by James Zealy on 05/01/12 at 02:26 AM Foreign and different are one and the same. Hatred of what is not perceived as the norm, and for gods sake what is really the norm? Who makes the damn rules? Who decides who should live or die for their differences? Yes this is compelling. |
| Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 06/05/12 at 11:56 AM beyond the depth and content of this ode, I am intrigued with the rhythms and flow and there is something to be said about doubt always being the best defense. |
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