Um, No; I Don't Do That Buddha Thing

This day will die by someone's hand,
Its own or mine. I do not care.
This tower, fashioned of frustrations,
Sits, its corners wired, charged,
Awaiting only my command
To push the plunger. When it
Falls, and when I've let the flame
Of hatred burn itself, and all, to ashes,
I will slither to my bed and chuckle
Gently to myself, “This day, at last,
Is dead.”



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 26 times
Written on 2013-08-08 at 00:40

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