Friday, May 10, 2013

Old City

by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Too many walls,
baloney smell
damp.

Our minds infiltrated,
radiated
with bogus facts.

Confusion
slicing us
into stumps.

Fruit
bloodied,
roots dangling...

We're mashed
potatoes
heaped on their golden plates.

They're laughing
at us
spooning us down.

Closing us in
cardboard boxes
against the elements.

But when our babies weep,
we sprout thorns
engorged.

Our old city shaking,
a thousand cities quaking,
dust rising to the sky.

Stones coming their way.

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