I’m currently working on a poem broken into “chapters.” Here’s part I:
Spit and sound soar and strike
the serving hands and hearts of
friends and family, loosening the links of lovers,
if not by now long, long, gone.
the bottle aims high to salute the sky
unfocusing the brokenness,
bending sharp edges with bluriness to bring
a twisted sense of happiness
the harps of havoc strum their tune together for the aching ears of tired souls.
Broken hearted heads embrace lifeless pillows
Flowing eyes find prize in closing for the night.
but death’s lullabies slice its hope into lies.
Then, without warning, bringing immeasurable torment
far worse of course than ten million megaphones
marching over masses of muted men
not relative in persistance but
removed from existence.