Panegyric To Our Own Self-Destruction by Sy Roth
Our own words
Or discomforting lack of them
Slices like Ice-Age cold;
Makes short shrift of our intent.
We watch the black blood drip inexorably from our broken veins
Hitting the ground with a thunderous clap.
These words are just a burp in that time
Obeisance paid before Har Megiddo
Where the ort of lives collects like bread crumbs,
A feathered search to cleanse home of leavened droppings
Preparing for their burning
The little piles before their sullied gods.
Looking over our shoulders
Tel Megiddo rests among the ashes of its own creation
Testament to our apathies.
Confounded mobs rant at their remains
Ignoring their own self-ruses.
They ruminate on a vast array of things.
Like worried, Chinese-clay soldiers,
Buried, fearsome warriors,
Whose spears rest spellbound with their own inertia
Readied, but idle.
They tear at the memories of speeches unsaid,
A calamitous cacophony of speechless words,
Speared behind their glassine eyes
With images of movement
Their feet, transfixed,
Pounded into the ground, iron stakes.
A deus ex machina of dead neurons,
A synaptic mortality standing at the door
wishing, hopeful, unready, fearful
Inactive pangs hungering to be again.
©2018 Sy Roth
Sy Roth is a retired school administrator and has finally found the sounds of silence and the time to think whole thoughts. This has led him to find words and the ability to shape them. He has published in Visceral Uterus, Amulet, BlogNostics, Every Day Poets, Barefoot Review, Haggard and Halloo, Misfits Miscellany, Mad Swirl, Larks Fiction Magazine, Danse Macabre, Bitchin’ Kitch, Bong is Bard, Humber Pie, Poetry Super Highway, Penwood Review, Masque Publications, Foliate Oak, Miller’s Pond Poetry and The Eloquent Atheist.