The Foe
Lily livered lint of a lizard, let him be called
In pious protest of his primevel name
He who in the spinning sun our death installed
Made history mere cinder for the flame
Why mark me with mortality for your material rage
What treasure in life's flesh yet I cage
He slithers between lines scrawled on a creeping page
And leaf by leaf levers love with lurid rage.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2010
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