Baby Burns

Love is War

Love is a conflict
with no mercy,
an ingrained bullet
that asks no directions,
but shoots through
ranks of dissidence.

Love is a prisoner of war
that is denied all rights,
dipped low by suffering pride
words don't connect,
they patrol dividing lines,
militant metaphors unbowed.

Love is a soldier's kiss
that marks with perfect aim,
sculpted in twisted metal,
shrapnel shaping, gaping holes
flap silently in war drums
that try to beat its name.

_________________________

Weeping Sentinels

I wait
with a wind that never sleeps,
a rustling of stinging nettles
deep beneath the skin,

and then watch
as the light sets on the steady ruin
of a pretentious poet, drunk sore
on cliched sonnets that have lied.

I sense
the baby burns of flesh in longing,
a call for the taste of something
that left desire wanting more,

only to feel
the hand of hollow night at my throat,
suicidal stars skydive as I try to ignore
the nearby cry of weeping sentinels.

Read more of my poems >>