Your Sunday Disguise

Sexual tension,
Say what, they would rather not mention.
Idle engines,
they purr, with sloppy precision.

Wasted effort,
Toss it in the river.
The plane is just now boarding.
Watch, the passengers are learning.

The chance of survival,
Through the scope of fates rifle.
Whistling bullets,
Running from the butcher's child.

Thick mud is flying,
From the souls of the convicted.
Dirty, rotting, filthy,
Their minds once thirsty.

The whiskey on her breath,
hides behind gentle Sunday best.
The church doors are closing.
Please, take a seat.

Reviews

[Misty Blue Eyes]

this poem is really good. a great write in deed

[Dejavu1978]

The bad part is this is all true. Love this poem. Great writing.