Email Poem

Your IP Address: 18.223.109.25

Your Email Address:

To Email Address:

Subject

Personal Note:

Poem Title:

Poem

Still heat. The dust in the gutters 
is dry. A droning fly 
can be heard through the shutters. 

Ruined walls. Rubble. Sun-cracked plaster. 
Afternoon, and nothing stirs. 
Things should be moving faster. 

Some streets away, a gun stutters, then stills. 
So, they persist in killing each other, 
blind to the evil, massing in the hills. 

The poets and plumbers are kings for a day. 
All they do is bicker, while 
the chance is slipping away. 

No bombs have fallen for days. The climax is coming. 
A car screams past, daubed with crude letters, and is gone. 
The fly continues its monotonous humming. 

You are badly mistaken, because 
you think you've converted the people. 
The enemy is inside your defences. He always was. 

He's not dead, or cowed, or beaten, though 
you thought you'd rid yourselves of him. 
Oh, no. He's still here. He's just lying low. 

When he cheered you, he was lying. 
He'll just lurk in half-dark rooms 
till palace flags are once more flying. 

Revolution? Workers presiding? 
Afraid not. The "others" haven't defected or fled. 
They're in the shadows. Waiting. Hiding. 

Barricades bristle. Garbage clutters. 
Infection festers in neglected corners. 
The fly drones on behind the shutters.

CAPTCHA Preview

Type the characters you see in the picture

Required