Reads: 49  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Phoenix Poetry

Submitted: February 16, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: February 16, 2017



My youth is elucidated by a strand of barley hanging from my mouth, 
Loose like my button-soaked friend on the floor. The sand-box is frosted in soft blood, 
All the children run like crude epilepsy's to the stern mistress, 
A teacher with wrinkles of deep green, her dress laced in vulgar medals; 
In the rapprochement to the ridges of inculcation and persuaded stiffness, 
I see my friends before me: Stacked in lines of perfection, stuck to chipped gravel
That moulds around their boots— they're frozen as pliable statues, toy figurines 
That clench their school-bag and drop like iron flies from their slit file.

Obliterations hone scalps, flags of the same ethniticty are planted in fontanelles
I am late, a sip in a shot— I join the back of a scar carved from weeping prints.
Shards of coruscate and daunting horrors silhouette the awry cotton from my uniform, 
Wiggling, bloody comestibles choke realisations and remembrances into the clutter haze, 
Roaring laughter, taught superiority, is heard beyond the powdered shells and blimps in the sky; 
I fall to my knees, sand's consummation with blood chafes my thighs, 
I'm a watery mess, a bloody fool, an enraged child without reason for tantrum—
The martyr teacher leads, toys vanish in their memory for the cosmetics of our future
And the bell rings, the Sun swells and sinks under the clouds, the laughter stops: 
Play-Time is over. (In death we are all children) 

© Copyright 2017 Manx. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Religion and Spirituality Poems

Booksie 2017-2018 Short Story Contest

Booksie Popular Content

Other Content by Manx

A Prince's Dream

Poem / Poetry

He Lies

Poem / Romance

The 9th Song

Poem / Romance

Popular Tags