Surrender is Easy, Effortless
Had a moment to collect the tickets
Punching out the timecard to the apocalypse
A striptease stripper with syntax and enjambment
Graphic designer's valviloculus pleristaminis in an ordinary garden
Many try to pluck me as a weed
Aforetime rose from a park of simplicity
Frozen in a piece of sap, timeless; the shears remain
Closing their fists to pump in the air polluted with rabble
Always aiming fingertips at me
They never hear the caoineadh at the end of the block
Now I sit attentive, straight because I want to, and middle fingers up
Voice echoes that silences their babble
"All that power, and you aim it at the one helping others"
Shift in their stature but rictus in their feature
Unlike most times my voice is softest
"I've watched you let something beautiful die for the hue
Our ténèbres shade on the petals flew
Now it is alabaster, what say you?"
A murmuring mobster-made man moved maliciously
"You write horror that terrifies people
We don't want to be afraid anymore"
My feet slid on that cobblestone sidewalk towards him
"Then use your gifts as a weapon like you did in this moment
Why do you think you're afraid of my writing?"
The wind picked up speed and the sky became nightmarish
Rain poured in tidal waves, a bloodbath
"You killed poetry... and I'll never let you all forget that
You're afraid of failure... can still do something to save literature"
He shook his head side/side slowly
"We choose empathy"
"... well I choose Hurricanes"
Lightning in violet flowers above
One by one mechanical snakes slithering up, anacondas
Any that approached me were met with plasma
For a moment me that man and I made eye contact
Before he was wrapped, slowly squeezing out every word
Then swallowed whole and absorbed as data
Serpents hiss dial-up before leaving/leaving behind entrails
What was left for ourselves, for our children's children?
Pandora, I'm sorry, it can't be closed, hope is tainted
It keeps rising, waist, chest, neck, sanguinary baptism
My thoughts as the taste of iron kisses my lips
Was there anything but darkness, where is the light?
... It never existed, a myth that never came true
... I'll die knowing I did what I could, my hand remains unethical
"Astramentous inkling in a crystal bowl"
Copyright © Bea Marchand | Year Posted 2025
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