Wings of Light
56465 Poems Read
Youíve struck again,
serial character assassin;
I heard the hissing from the grass,
felt the fangs pierce the thick
air I keep between us like fiberglass
cushioning Arctic gales.
Tell me, name-butcher, dust-dweller,
does it ever get tiring stuffing
so much hate into one body,
being so holy you outshine all
the sun-struck chrome parked in
front of the houses where your
acrobatic tongue performs
grand stunts each day?
Toss my name into the cauldron
with the others,
dice the truth into believable
pieces and add well-aged venom and
incantations to whatever god supports
the cause of lonely snipers,
and there you have it:
smoke and froth to start your day.
My armor was once ignorance,
but now I know. And itís knowledge
you fear: warriors without masks
are only human.
But those scales, those topaz slits
sizing up the prey--
that veneer of skin,
it looked so real . . .
That must have been someone else I saw
walking around with a smile and a heart.
Patricia Joan Jones
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