The Tour
Walk here firmly with fear, and know
The heart's gulping beat for air
Cradle shrivelled ego
Here, hope walks a mean street.
Mark this in your vocabulary
For days unrepentant to come:
Windows stare like dead men's skull,
Children jumping at the crack of darkness,
The coiled rope thudding sharp and dull -
Echoes from the fast flash of emptiness.
Walk like you are cool with the smell
Of the smoky remains of burning wood.
This is where we spend our hell
In search of good. All that I could
Have done was taken from me, yet
I stayed in this reluctant history
To make my own straws, and bring wet
Proof in blocks that walled in misery.
Walk with fear here, childen
Here we are neither innocent nor pure,
Mute but not blind
The first to die, but always behind
But nothing shall stop our heaven
Though our death is without meaning
On battlefields of grieving
For we fight not enemies, nor for friends
Are we heroes of an untimely end.
Follow this river
Where the native feet are extinct forever
Make this an accidental tour
The Bronx is still a broken door.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
