To His Head

Culture born of savage song.
The power of a motor primed for speed.
Intrinsically attracted by the need.
Primitive, the rise and fall.
Misunderstood and unrecalled.
Sinking deep to reach the molten core.
Then running from the taint of what they saw.

Weapons loaded. Fuses lit.
The blast that blew their world to bits
and pieces as their spirits were set free.
Reacting to the gross reality
in scented forms too sickly sweet
to breathe the air of their defeat.
Passing backs that gathered nothing in.
Unbalanced by the way their world spins.

Visions rising, feeling real.
More real than any ritual.
A magic time of misty make-believe.
Refusing still to feel the terror
ripping through their veins.
Engulfed in waves of ever pouring rain.
Sweet, the sense of cleansing
just before they're washed away.
No matter all their barriers,
they never could escape their destiny.

Ratted out by choices made
in days when all of life seemed played.
Thrown back into a melted memory.
Born of days when essence was still free.
Age creeping up so suddenly.
Each mental roar is silently retreating.
Stunned by the repeated aftershocks.
What once held joy had been deployed
in order to bring history alive.
Words of glory. Teaming roars.
There's no one left to keep the score.

Impetuous, the rivers run bright red.
Survivor's guilt. The wish to just be dead.
He couldn't hear a word they said.
He took the gun and raised it to his head...

? Michaelette ?

6/2/2005
Copyright© 2005 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home . . .