A Turtle Riding The Bus When The Bike Broke Down...
I know cowardice, have personally tasted it
In the deep end of the soul
Fear does not get you on the big things
It is far more insidious, like the tentacles of cancer.
Slow bus rides recalling strange sounds
That shouldn't be so alien
When by circumstance you are broken down
Huddled fear has time on it’s side
and nibbles away unexpectedly comfortable
Like foot and heel skin eating fish you pay for at the Spa.
True Fear? The sinful horror that charges you?
You never see it coming,
It is like crab grass growing up on you daily
Till one day you look around and it is all you see.
In the disconnection you hear
they give medals for instant courage
Jail time to thoughtful latter day hero’s?
I don’t think shelled Poets, should be allowed to touch guns
Little own aim them, with a trained finger.
The confusion would be overwhelming
A spiritual discourse of unwanted questions
posed to the 6 o'clock news and tomorrow's headlines.
Tinctured killings? Should be left to
17 year old Marines and
frat jock wannabes to worry about.
Homicidal Poets are just uncomfortable
like surplus combat boots purchased
for the stories they can tell...
Almost insulting.
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