Tuesday, February 21, 2012

судный день





Tonight I balance on a weathered roof
Between the slitted eyes of soviet kings
That only wish to see me dead as proof
Of fire's eponymous rule over wings
They shake the shadowed hands of secret's doubt
And offer me the solace of a flask.
I curse their blood as they begin to tout
The hand of god and fit me with a mask.
I surely give a laugh to cause a qualm
And bury every fear, I hold, in them
In order to ignite my inner calm
Collected mood. I hold no regrets within.
Hollow, I prepare to lick the sun
And meet my maker once my shift is done.





Speed Sonnet: 08:47:34

No comments:

Post a Comment