Sometimes, I write poems.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
When a young boy shoots a robin
[as they all do] via slingshot
there is an unthought thought amok.
It's all about death
He thinks it, approaching his quarry.
There he finds much squirming.
A beak saying nothing, but distended.
Legs a'kick, entrails exposed.
Much death delayed.
Beaucoup de morte a retarde.
And I say to you that if in that moment
the lad does not throw the weaponry from his body
he shall find it a hard thing indeed
to become a man.
-- © Ciprianowords, Inc. 2012 --
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