PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Almost sane, 

sometimes, 

our collective hearts 

pulse to the drum 

of a promise, 

pounded to death 

and reborn 

a thousand times, 

forged in the inferno of 

screams and 

haunted silence. 

I once called 

the promise "Justice", 

but it lurched 

far behind,

dragged the years, 

slept late and 

often stared, 

with mechanical eyes, 

at the bleeding 

doves that fell 

one by one 

to the ground. 

Justice holds 

its breath 

and waits for the 

lace and brocade 

of spring, 

patient as

glaciers of stars 

in the grip 

of prowling limbo,

an obstinate beauty: 

infinity glazed over, 

loving through the darkness 

where everything is an imprint 

of Divinity or, perhaps, signatures 

of an icy, molten, unformed 

promise. 

Where have you been? 

What is a country worth?

Was freedom just another scam?

Who could pay 

such a cosmic debt 

or untangle 

the knots we became? 

And what about 

riddles too cruel 

to solve 

or truth 

too perfect to 

make any sense 

in this place? 

See us, 

Maker And Mover Of 

Words Unseen. 

Ransom the nation 

waiting to breathe. 

Patricia Joan Jones