Tuesday, March 4, 2014

past present all over again.

Romantic type portraits
painted upon
faces of those gathering
and those that have been recreated.
Lovers and parents sitting,
fires burning.

All have been warned.
The outcome, the ending,
has already been planned.

Yet, painted faces watch it play out before them.
The show begins once more.
The fires are growing hotter.
 The sky is burning.

Fragments of our yesteryear
are sold and bought on a black-market
of self-created romantic visions.
The  organs of our ancestors
are bathed in new blood.

New faces are being passed around
for the gathering to partake of.
Sheltering the guilt for silence.
The fires begin to burn brighter,
the smell of poison sweetens the air.

The lights go dim,
the curtains rise.

Forgotten celebritarian names recite angry prose
that gets tossed on pyres
where  nothing is learned 
and everything gained
 is not enough to pay the expense.