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John SweetPoemsuntitled composition in black and white landscape made hopeless in the season of rust |
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untitled composition in black and white
John Sweet
10 a.m.
thursday morning
and i am talking to this man
in the breezeway
am exchanging
empty pleasantries
about the weather and
eight hours later he is dead
he has placed the gun
to his temple
has possibly made one final
unimportant speech and of course
the sound of the trigger being pulled
is never as loud as the screams
of ten million murdered
children
and i had hoped to write
at least one hopeful poem in
the season of rust
i had hoped to paint
this picture with
a thin veneer of hope but it
cannot be done
not every bitter truth
is an admission
of failure
From www.retortmag.com/issue10/poetry/sweet.htm
