by Max Bouillet
Yell with me
until our raw throats fail
and our souls rip from
their prison of blood, bone, and sinew
to soar on the echoes
Patient zeros in a
contagion of outrage
as one by one
launch soul after
into the face of God.
And thus we are born
bloody little angels
intent on silencing
in which we were
Author's Note: ...after watching the nightly news.
Posted on 08/22/2014
Copyright © 2020 Max Bouillet
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Alison McKenzie on 08/22/14 at 02:16 AM|
Sums it up quite sadly but with deadly accuracy.
|Posted by Paul Lastovica on 08/24/14 at 01:02 AM|
News is a boiling pot spilling over with troubles most foul. It often scalds; and we scream then mourn our ill spent, poorly aimed fury. I think your aim here is spot on, though.
|Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 08/24/14 at 04:12 AM|
Worthy emotional capture of the times.
|Posted by Leslie Ann Eisenberg on 12/24/14 at 04:53 PM|
"until our raw throats fail," what a smack in the face! the news - fast and furious and never fails to disappoint, to wreck our day, to bring misery and remind us of human imperfection. well done! xopk
|Posted by Philip F De Pinto on 01/08/15 at 12:44 PM|
as usual, the images are quite powerful. if they were resulting from watching the news, then news be praised.