Pieces of Bread
Rob Lowe
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We all march in the same direction,
Hang onto the sky’s cross; The diversity is illusion: Ethnicity of loss. Death will come as a craftsman To suck the fertile brain dry: A frail shell, mounted with love, In galleries of the dead. A harmony of descent: Water falls, leaves hang, men talk; Past time is held in suspense. With the night moon setting fast Lonely words will slip away. His writing flat with speed As if a thought-storm tore Through the grey town’s language: Best let winds take their course. Her faith deserted her. She blamed everyone; Society fell apart, But her death was composed. This is a jigsaw But no pieces fit. A broken archipelago: Thoughts rolling to the shore Their flotsam of words Their jetsam of thought. inclusiveness guidance ethnicity empowerment sunken philosophies volcanic atolls individual rights law and order freedom of choice or victim A word salad when All’s said and done. He comes clutching a holy black book; His thin, white fingers are bony and raw. He talks in a rice-paper whisper of God As if death were lurking everywhere. |