Poetry of Issue #8        Page 53

All the Rage

Worn by the jagged whirlwind
We live in the aftermath’s scorn
Drenched in the stench of time
Navigating temptation’s wreckage

War torn minds house savage cargos
Hearing mercenary music
As snow buries fire under heaven

History is a race for political convenience
We reap the barren harvest
From the sewers of antiquity
While art escapes me at minimum wage

Some still seek refuge
Under the trees of pity
The remain civilized malcontents
Exotic neurotics, jaded romantics
Knowing that time is stronger than leisure

Well rinsed bandits can ignore their nightmares
Slave bowls, filled to the brim with comfort
Owning hard core vanities and punk hospitality
Immune to the cries
Of joyful tears and humiliating dignity

They rein over forgotten fugitives of existence
Whose vagabond eyes
Enhance their empty fortune
While fighting in their sleep
To restrain pedestrian rage

We are toxic willows
Blowing in all directions
Existing on false hope and blind faith
To plow through each day

  Drew Marshall