Wed, 05/22/2024 - 10:46 -- issimbi

Afloat a tumultuous sea of rage,

he drifts solitary, still, and silent.

Yearning out the Hadopelagic cage;

deep marine, where quiet means violent.

Fury with the world since he came to be

in a polluted oceanic womb.

A berserk scheme of turmoil to set free:

the soon volcanic tsunami of doom.

So with a wrathful breath and vengeful gulp, 

he kisses the bullets and loads the gun.

Innocent cerebral blows to fruit pulp;

what is done is dead; what is dead is done. 

Droplets of bodies fall day and morrow

by hand of the harvester of sorrow. 


This poem is about: 
My country
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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