PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I've got a bit
Of round metal in my pocket
Carved faces
Of puppets upon them
Ones that some wholly worship like gods
Others would send to the depths of Poseidon
And Haedes
Like a voodoo wish on a wishing well
Tossed in
For all of them to burn in hell
To a crisp

Don't make a difference to me,
They're dead
Eaten and shat out by worms,
Long ago
With the ones who pulled their strings
And all the beautiful people who pulled for love 
Instead
Mixed together in the soil
To try again

Call it the middle ground
But it mostly seems to grow of itself
Children
Who sit on painted fences
Or pose like plastic behind glass display windows
And watch as
The world goes by

Greed has gotten so rich
It can buy the world on a string
Will our last havens
Be invaded by them?
By those with the wealth and thirst of gods?
But it appears that the richer they are,
Well,
The greater the debt in the end they will owe
For no one does banking better than the storm

Within
The more one takes from others the higher the loan's

Interest
And no nation invades others without sacking itself

First

...but I often wonder

Will it make a difference that I was here,
when I'm dead?
Subservient to insects
In the earth's soil
Does that explain why bugs unnerve some?
But all the beautiful people who pulled for love
(Amen)
Are they diluted into the soil
Too much to change it

Ah,

Call it middle ground
But earth mostly seems to grow of itself
Children
Who sit on painted fences
Or pose like plastic behind glass display windows
And watch as
The world goes by

....I often wonder
Are my legs telling the truth of me,
Or am I just peddling in place
And will it make a difference to me,
When I'm dead