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Boa's Ark - Part 2

Terry O'Leary Avatar Terry O'Leary - Premium MemberPremium Member Send Soup Mail  Block poet from commenting on your poetry

Below is the poem entitled Boa's Ark - Part 2 which was written by poet Terry O'Leary. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.

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Boa's Ark - Part 2

 Continued from Part 1 

Amongst the many are the few who maim and kill and think it’s true
That purple war’s a parlour game when really they are draped in shame
For crimes of which they are to blame and can’t expunge with searing flame
While plodding through an endless time, or pealing bells with holy chime,
Or posing in a paradigm where paradox and riddle rhyme.

And when they die, as die they must, forevermore their putrid dust,
Still soaked with gore and carmine lust, will conjure thoughts of cold disgust,
And even though torrential rain (which tastes at times like cool champagne)
Can wash away the scarlet stain which mars the earth and its terrain,
It cannot ever cleanse the hands that work the guns and burning brands,
Or purge the throats that give commands to him who never understands,
Nor can the raging hurricane from blackened souls the white regain,
Rescind the sins or void the banes or shroud the night with golden chains.

When through the night and day they pass, their eyes avoid the looking glass
Displaying dim a pale phantasm plunging deeper in a chasm,
Surging through a blood orgasm, smiling thin unveiled sarcasm
For the chances lost to taste the many fruits that went to waste
When each was still a joyous lad, who went to school and learned to add
And danced in rivers barefoot clad, and went to church with mom and dad
And learned about the good and bad, before he grew insanely mad
And took his brothers by the throats and thrust them into midnight moats
And watched their booted bodies float (quite like some broken battered boat)
And left the rag of bones to bloat in bullet-ridden overcoat,
And wondered if the goblins gloat or spot (behind his eyes, a mote),
Then strode away without a thought that mortal lives had come to naught,
Sedated by his conscience brought to nothing more than dripping snot,
While Others sit upon a yacht and pluck the eyes of perch They’ve caught,
For fishes die and seem to see The Ones behind the tyranny
(With bellies round from gluttony) in future dangling from a tree
(With leaves as black as ebony), for that’s, They fear, Their destiny.

 Continued in Part 3 

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