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Place parsed pennies, purposely upon pretty porcelain palms.
The wanderer, restrained her raised ranting wrists!
She fell to her Humpty Dumpty position,
unable to ever be put back together again...
Each of us witnessed her fall,
yet we failed to gather those colourful leaves.
I believe we could have laid them at the base of her wall.

She sees the trees as he increases her diseases.
Deepening predatory penetrations as he pleases!
Cracking, fracking, hating, taking, and breaking.
Bringing about disappearing, as pain stains, her shamed awakening!
If we could have, would we have, mournfully watched?
Or instead, would we have held her wrists,
pulled at reddened panties, excruciated  her sufferings?
Instead, we placated horrific tugged observations, 
waited, pretended to see nothing,
drank our mocha-chino from starry cups!
we sat and licked our lips to the calming sound of muzak,
preferring voyeuristic aristocracy.


Oh how she cursed his kissing and biting,
the sucking of her  Texan black gold!
All the while he praised her caged loins,
filling a billion barrels with her oil...
Until the time her flame set fire to his cursed wanting!
Until she summoned the winds from the east.
It was time to birth the spawn of his treachery.
Lava poured forth from mountainess risings!
He must suckle upon her displeasure,
until like creosol, his noxious presence, 
combines with his own wasted wood.
Thus preserving his monumental failures,
encasing them within layers of his strangled death!

A voice called out from the West, "Where is the foolish man?
Who is left to sing about his great accomplishments?
His peculiar monuments have been laid to waste,
not a single brick remains in it's place." 
No one is left to excavate the woeful forgotten.
She "Mother" seeps into the soil to reclaim his blood,
her womb is once again fertile.
She asks "Do we wish to begin again?"
The start of a great pause stings her ears!
She looks and understands,
 "It is no longer good!"


Literary devices

Alliteration
Allusion
Ambiguity
Assonance 
Asyndeton 

Written December 29th, 2015


For me Poetry is food for the mind, sometimes it is an appetizer to whet the appetite, or it can be full course meal that takes a while to digest. Other times it can be a sweet desert that tantalizes the senses. I hope this piece offers some mental engagement and nourishment.
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