I should abandon this poem.
I cannot complete it,
Without stigma blotting the scraping knuckled
Pavement of the red sky
I tear away, wary that such
Impossible battles will certainly
Curtail the joints to ill measured means,
Bandages covering the wrists, knees and ankles,
Carefully watchful of the cancers and ulcers
Creeping slowly into the recesses of the major organs,
Ready to strike a chord rhyming majestically
With angelic symphonies, eulogies and merry requiems
Of the allergies washed awry from bygone eras...
Ears, dangling loose from the hidden cries of history,
Thump erect at the thunder of distress,
But the harmonies of the dead are muffled
Beneath the rumblings of the topsoil
Redistributed and cavitated with convenience and astroturf.
Ocean blue, Blood red or Black death to recollect these muses;
Blood and ink and other such liquid are hardly comparable or interesting,
Swords and pens are both simply flint;
Maybe the hope should be abandoned...
Perhaps, love itself, too hard in a world so full of options;
That which ten decades ago was offensive
Can now be sold off in the millions.
Where is the industry built on love,
But in the scribbles of the hopeful...?
Peter's first church wasn't the first at all,
Hope creates things to make sense,
Hate helps the species survive.
I should've abandoned this poem,
But the hope of another was too great.