This poem is not about you

This poem is only about the thought of you




web photo

Balaclavad souls with strange faces

Circle the platforms

Vultures dressed in human skin

Sewer brains working rotten fingers

No boundaries, no limits

No prisoners but themselves


Prematurely weaned swine

Dangerously hungry for attention

Flea spirited large mouths

These vile denigrating vermin

Tearing down what they didn’t build


Which yeast produced them?

And spread them like pestilence

Who abandoned and hurt them?

These arrogant and mean idiots

Prowling social media for victims

Bullishly sowing their self hate

Refusing to stop and think.

The Beginning

Photo by Sandie Muhukku

A voice devoid of everything but purpose

Lost in generations of “what if” “next time” “when I”

The loud children of the great liar

Drowned, drained, derided but never defeated

On the great hill and in the deepest valley

Suddenly found by the Maker

Rejoiced, remastered, restored

Of streams and rivers that flow

Scattered seeds that grow

Dead fires with embers that still glow

A breath of life

Dry and scattered bones

Begin to sing