Q-Who-
We have these intricate, anonymous conspiracies,
That no one in public seem to own.
So they remain invisible in the mind of the
Imaginary, while they cast the first stone.
Yet its venom spreads slowly,
As it cripples to incapacitate.
While truth begs for an antidote,
Through a confessional of hate.
As identity remains in mystery, the
Contributions claimed are leftover to brew.
Fermenting slowly, while steeping its fear,
Into a recipe that many consume to construe.
Copyright © Timothy Mattson | Year Posted 2021
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment