~finally
wholesomeness destroyed
sweet is bitter
two plus two equals...
seventeen
rendering script
reread the ink lines
a broken field
survivors slain by men
smile or die
insecurity
my own fault
lies are the only form of sustenance available
but still leaves me empty
laugh misery away
hope you had fun
truth deletion in progress...
smile
smile
smiles identical...
sorrows ever so diverse...
t r u t h n o n e x i s t e n t
Admiral John Smith sat stark and semidark at the crossroads among the war torn.
With no urgency for liturgy, he wrapped his men tightly with tattered blankets around
likewise mortalities.
Nearby, in an irreverent attempt for a God-like Eucharist, homegrown quilted women lit
store-bought cigarettes and watched the smoke curling out over a foggy crisp soggy bog
near will o' the wisp.
Admiral Smith sat quietly. At his feet, fleas flit like stones skipping 'cross the barely dim
glow. Down below bitter cold creatures' skeletal souls scattered broken-field into a hissing
abyss. Alone he remembered how his battalions never broke formation charging into those
shattering shells of Hell.
Battles were fought steely with stern determination. He saw this great nation lay askew
where Clearwater used to be free. As the bald egalitarian deadheads stared dead ahead into
shadows of semidark, the Whitewater fights ran yellow into red and white stripes through the
deep blue that runs through many sleepless knights. We prayed Admiral Smith would get
sleep as he kept watch over the faithful.