Looking at the painting on the wall,
The picture tipped;
Fell off the wall and hit;
Angry Anthony blipped,
Came crashing down on his face;
Chipped his tooth ,
Placed his finger dipped,
Rubbed dripped blood off his lip drips, flipped,
Ana came him a cold towel her;
Ran a little warmer water, wrung it out then washed his face;
1/7/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2020
His soft tissue, it ripped
All his discs, they had slipped
To the ER, the ambulance zipped
To right this poor fellow's ship
His wife's hand he gripped
On the worrisome trip
His whole world had flipped
His wings had been clipped...
The monitors blipped
His confidence dipped
Liquid steroids he sipped
Drip-drip, drip-drip
Here the doc snipped
Over there did he clip
Then he grinned, and he quipped
'You've no more spine
~ Just a postscript.'
Traipsing, sludge like through the ages.
Mountainous terrain that's like a fortress.
Trenches that provide just a hint of cover yet they are an almighty pleasure.
War
Your in my sights, indoctrinated to protect where none should be needed.
A lamentable excuse to portray the vision of a timetable.
Like writing an essay you're there to maim people.
A history of unsung praises.
Whatever happened to the peaceful muses.
It only takes one to declare
The problem is it slays more than a bear.
There is no effect more clear, there is no shining that is more dazzling.
The truth is there, so clear in its feigning.
Land that's blipped with a guided whip only has seconds till it's a pile of ...... rubble.
Lives, there are no words to describe the mutual.
All you need are your thoughts to be truthful and you can see the horror of the affected people.
Why ?
The rest I will leave to your mindful.
So the world softly exploded,
concussion grenade in a pillow factory;
shocking and disjointing,
dust and feathers spraying the vision,
tickling the optic nerve.
Clattering and booming, although
silently, like an inconsequential earthquake
in a vacuum.
Heartbeats came limping through,
dull, solemn, the drum accompanying
a funeral march, slightly out of time.
Green lines skipped and blipped,
radar peaks and troughs,
portions erased here and there
gaps in the picture.
There’s no life on Mars,
and little left in here in this room,
well, curtained cubicle
of sparse clinical veneer.
Alone with sensations of dying and
death, alone with the self,
last thoughts,
a mortal coil sparkling weakly
like slowly flattening lemonade.
Ah, let’s not be melodramatic,
this supposed cataclysm,
seismic event of the flesh,
it’s, quite frankly,
overrated…
and as for pain,
I’ve had worse…