Mantra: I Will Create As I Speak
Seventh,
In the taxi,
The driver's arms fan out
like a praying mantis, ready
for the kill. Old thin arms.
In the backseat:
the prey.
Seventh,
Today is mist.
Dark blue buildings grow high.
But disappear into the sky.
Their heavy secrets swim,
incognito,
in me.
Seventh:
I wear layers
And I was born ready
To show off a crop top cover
Over my thin pale skin.
Freakshow for fans;
I'm me.
Seventh:
I'm the killer,
Killing time with poems.
Just like Salem hangs its witches.
I wait for my trial
My justice served
Too cold.
Seventh
And it could be
Eight or ninth after me.
Life lived, waiting on a park bench.
Tall, slender ghosts and I
Moan across time:
Judgment.
Seventh:
White picket fence
Limit my lime green grass
Of home. I await my return,
Spiritual,
Cosmic.
Seventh
This is my last
True American line.
Dear Boston, please don't rain for me.
Grow your Fenway leaves and
Kenmore brick tiles,
I'm gone.
Copyright © Terrence Tennessee | Year Posted 2021
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