PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

If Jesus was a carpenter and the devil was a crow
the mothers mixing coldrins of medicine (we're low')
pentagram and hexagons painted on the floor
belladonna laughs in the scarlet witchs store
Wicked with intention. Silence she never talks.
Burning up tender selling smallpox.
Mystic like a shadow saying.       "whatever calls is lost"
moving through meadows searching for what costs
 all the doors are opened but not inside my mind.
My memories are all echos of ripples in the times.
She's a succubus in blue jeans, her perfume is of lavender.
Her hair like red velvet, cynical as she staggers.

A nymph with a needle, an outcast with a crown
Burnt out and shaking shattered by sounds
Living out nightmares and drug addled dreams
Jailhouse floozy the honeybun queen.
Torn up and tattered and thrown to wolves
Living in cells with two timers and crooks.
Capitalist karma played out in sync
A truth avoided, you prefer not to think
Numbed to the motions, proud of yr lies
Easily to see you choose yr disguise
I certainly hope... you find a way
 to pull back yr mask at the end of the day
And I hope you look in the mirror
and recall a time
When love had a meaning outside the comfines of a rhyme.

Marshall Parker.
January 2nd, 2017