PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Squelched upon the city blocks in memory and tandem;
Marion brings heel to rock and bleeds her bugs at random.
Dragging metric two ton cubes of pulsing, breathing black
that stain the ground and dripping down, corrode it 'til it cracks;
she's moving toward the faintest stir - she'd heard there was a show,
and wants to stand with clapping hands among the rest who'd known.
Her tarry brings her, carried in, to village crown and aisle,
where her cubes in grandiose were caught upon the stile,
and patrons cradled at her back and allowed their shouts to shrill,
while Marion could do no more than pull against her will.
People climbed and stepped upon her head and both her shoulders,
brandishing their anger towards these squares and their beholder.
Marion could only weep aloud while lunging forth in vain
as the metal traps affixed and bound would root her tow in place.
The roar of strings alive with sound cut through the furnace air
and through the sour passage came a blissful thoroughfare.
Marion was left alone to tend to her detainment;
her solitude emboldened by the frenzy she'd engaged in.
Her eyes were still alight with tears, her bugs began their chime;
and soon she would depart between the folds that crease in time.
The music played in fervor wound with crowd alive and swaying,
but Marion was rooted here with no real point remaining.
Stratus breached, her weights aloft, devoured by the folds;
she reached into the quaking rift with hands gone rotten, cold.
Into this familiar place with stillness she had missed,
Marion did settle in with a subtle, wing-tipped kiss,
and as she drowsed beneath the proud vibrations of her kin,
she dreamt of looming venues and her skin made genuine.