The Middle Party — A Wing Abridged
A Poem To The Concerning Mistake Of Our Histories
All that lives must die —
The slogan is not thwarted
In living halves, for what
It uttered by the stately gerbil
Beholden — it must be a true rue
To ever be considered alive;
To the dignity of the dead,
Is the ruling why
Capacious to a fault, believing
The ebbing of an annual
Mistold, for all that was owed
To the master of bidding
The conceding faith of the seeds
Of passive hate, whereupon
The wings succeeding are
Heeded on the middle path
Towards a third supposed fate.
To do or wish or die —
The claimants will,
Beastly tears sundering us by
The domain of the fertile
Earth to bidding tribes
To cheese and dine on the blood
Of suitable lies.
How swiftly will we all
Dime ourselves unto the war
After bowing eternally through
The instruments of our contrivements
That we the progressed shan’t
In this sea of sham, behold the living
To ceaseless wars, that will go on silently
For the years thereafter —
Besetting the land once more into movement
Clandestine in authority bleeding thereon
To reaction unto tyranny amassed;
The only possession
That bends the ebb and flow of violence,
Or this peace is the sheer thing of human creativity
Paired ultimately to destruction for one cannot
Be without the other;
And bear with me,
For their enclosing bids
Are thereupon it for the
Munching of all sinews
Thereafter the wherewithal
Into the virgins of nothing.
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©Joanie Adams — Joanie Adams; Gift A Tea: https://ko-fi.com/joanieadamms
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