Poetry

THE VENDETTA I MARCHED

Everyday concocts it’s trials
in a hot serving tray from Earth.
Flowers of Tuesday fits this aisle
when the casket holds its sour death.

January comes to mate the hole
and prays for me not to rebirth.
I would believe the sun’s new role
when the casket holds its stench’d breath.
May is a contract signed on stage
like the one Tony sealed with Beth.
It came drowning the fear of age,
until midnight found a new page.
So did August come to wage war
wielding enemies like Macbeth.
It mattered not who had the score
Only the casket held the debt
Did December ever come back?
Cause foreign pain plays the new birth
singing old songs that rocked the park.
I’m only here cause pain said so
righting my wrongs when cocks did crow.
2/13/17
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