Ghost of Earth ©

American Vampires

August 28, 2017 Poems, Word, Writing

Tear down
all old statues
that allow for
even half a man
to feel
even the most
minor shred
of immortality.

Reap the one
of liberty
for her fruit
has grown rotten
as she watches
over us;
eyes a lone sclera,
piercing grey skies
like some
alien moral beacon.

Let her torch
fire and fury
melt down
these hollow villages
whose names ride
upon the back
of what
white men coined

There is no




just as there is
no gentleness
nor table manner
to the rabid wolf.

You know –
it’s true

some men
have spent their lives
leaving scent trails
to the beds
of the
slumbering innocent
for other
masked men
in tailored dark cloaks

to only

slither in
and cut the
throats of.

They claim
no dirty conscience.

And somehow,

it’s reaches
extend to
even us
as we look
to our reflections
as guides

while they gently
rub our backs
and smooth our sweet hair
ensuring us
we are not
passive serial killers.

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