19 November 2008

glen l. lantz

glen l. lantz

Spin the web of intoxication,
the desperate grow tired of heaven,
once more justice is bought with blood,
we give birth to the revolution.

The dead can never be replaced,
you utter words of hope,
as you come to grips,
with your shame and wrath.

It would be different if we were free,
occasionally you become flooded with hope,
wicked dance of disillusion,
she circles the wagons.

In the aftermath of horror,
we find a separate peace,
a stoic grasp on the future,
claws scratching against the wall.

I sit with her every night,
we are brave souls,
constantly retreating,
from scar shaped futures.

Following justice,
her gentle ironic voice,
tales of fabricated invention,
we are never far from the past.

We gaze soulfully,
into each other’s eyes,
sturdy beaten-earth walls,
small against the backdrop.

Our faces crumpled,
like the morning paper,
laying in a heap on the floor,
we all come alone.

Standing between two worlds,
feet firmly upon the shoulders,
the snake swallows its tail,
we unite the opposites.

She piles the stones up to heaven,
a landmark to show us the way,
driving us over the edge,
a constant spinning top.

We conjure up the past,
a sense of déjà vu,
she glues the little pieces,
back together again.

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