war

HOSTILE

Your heart is a no man’s land, and
you have fornicated, battle-ready,
with countless minds; The Art of War
alive in your apathetic stare,
a ghostly Sun Tzu in your shadow, and
its pages falling like poetry from your face

Yet, like a Viking, you roar,
axe in hand to slaughter dreams and cut ties;
no art, no honour, and just half the warrior
you claim to be – the septic engraver of
bloody runes and headstone eulogies –
Norse winds carrying the poetry I write of you:
it’s pages never to reach your crimson eyes

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 27 May, 2017

WEED, THE PEOPLE

Led by foreign madness, we
– to long expected sleepless graves –
will swim to sink and drown in numbers
weighted down beneath the waves
with nothing left inside but shadows;
no-one left of worth to save.

In one end and out the other,
warring with psychotic pride, then
born again and made to suffer
– karmic purpose ill-forgotten –
each new chance at life, a buffer:
“Next time: change…” we chant inside.

Cycles written, history leaking,
sorely weeping through the pores
of growing wombs and offspring born
– another child of soulless form –
to breastfeed lies, imprisoned, shrieking
time again: disease repeating.

Sin ingested (soup for poor)
– the bile of shame and burden lost –
as people starve and lives are sold
and terrors planned to mind control…
and all the while our sickened bodies
hover, rotting, rank with worry.

Toll the bells – it’s time to breathe
and weed this horror from our conscience;
steer ourselves towards a pardon,
pave the way, resume our garden
seeding spirit, heart, and mind
with growth to bloom for one last time
or we, the people, incarnating,
won’t survive beyond our mating.

 

© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 9th July, 2016