Lorraine Borgolini



You and I are partners
We tap on the wall of all souls
Extracting hope from threads of bare hands
And broken hearts
The grim sardonic faces of unloved men
Exacted their loss on us
Joined in purgatory  we wait.
Let us speak plainly men of myth making
Your fields are wastelands
Of crops grown in dark cold minds
Your minions built roads of carnage
From Carthage to Stalingrad
Your crusades will not be undone
Leaving bones and wreckage
Rudiments of hate.
Be still now be quiet
We have a story to tell
A mocking allegory
You will come to grapple with 
Its mask of indemnity
Victims stand before us row upon row
Squandering life in demonic servitude
A tacky exchange between banal beasts of prey
And men with plain brown eyes
With the body stripped of dignity
And the mind wrenched from pride
Reconciling that fate is inextricable
The metaphor of our resistance
A wall of extinction
To whom do we appeal?
The hand slaps cold
It’s tempest a poison pill under the skin
Wrestling with sirens of unrest 
And faltering images
We tangle up in our own spiritual pest
Purging religious icons
We called home
There is a blank face on God
We feel its rancorous form
In dark corners of the room
What is left to postulate?
Death nips the onerous day
In a field almost barren
The beauty of its bleakness
Sublime and so impervious
Rising cascades of wild fauna
Bring redemption of knowing life is
A demeanor beyond one’s self
We stand will transformed
A soliloquy of transgressions
Reckoning with reason
At this moment you and I know
The unequivocal truth
That heinous acts of impious men can never restrain
The one raw moment of need  to tap

« What is held captive may never be confined »

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