coming home in the rain

on the dusty, corpse-riddled field of battle,

the final soul will glare at my eyes

and beg to know the answer

to what fuels the intensity of my anger,

and as i wipe away the last few drops of his blood from my cheek,

i'll whisper: myself.

there's a picture you told me about,

but never sent to me.

i want to see our love defined

in the mirorred world of lens and film.

a world without consequence or answers

just the continous ticking of wheels and gears

until the sun turns dim,

and God shuts the door forever

before doing a poor Porky Pig impression

that would leave people scratching their heads

if there were any left to witness.

 

 

Reviews

[LJW]

Incredibly unique writing.

The Porky Pig impression by God = priceless.