the book burningA Poem by m.s.earlyThe veins routed the long, cold streams like waterways that would not thaw even into the furnace of their hankering hearts. none knew the children were beneath the shadows. none knew their diseased systems were contagious. Tell me preacher, when you first lit the cleansing pyre were you the fire or the wind? Could you hear their skulls shrinking from the chilled notions or the vacuous brains compensating for the loss? And tell me, did the dolts of your propaganda seek solace; did their infested vessels seek their cheeks to rosy against glow, and did your hard-on thicken and your girth sicken your mind while you placed your sunken lips to their parching ears and sucked what was left of their independent condition while they expected cultivation and mistook you for it? none knew the children would never understand. none knew that they were lemmings along to your edge. Did your incredulous hands warm against the blaze? Did the religious books burn red like your American blood? The veins of their mind continued to route those long, cold streams along the waterways that would not thaw even as those foreign pages bounded in sheathes of un-interpretable verse became unwarranted dross. The children would later sift through those smoldering blessings still reeking of your sour breath seeking purity, but only lifting their eyes. Some would never discover that the smell of the righteous would well serve investigated. Some would later discover these molten principles could never be exhumed.
© 2014 m.s.earlyReviews
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11 Reviews Added on February 13, 2014 Last Updated on February 14, 2014 Authorm.s.earlyVAAbout"A poet's work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to take sides, start arguments, shape the world, and stop it going to sleep." -Salman Rushdie more..Writing
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