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Saturday, December 6, 2014

I think this is a better poem

Let it go

Let the storm rage on
Tearing and rending all in its sight
As if a storm could have sight
They blindly destroy all in its path
Strangely enough there are little pockets
Where the tempest decides to skip
As if the storm had some nefarious design
We will leave the sporting goods store alone
But that church and shelter…they must go

Chris McQueeney    12/6/14

1 comment:

christopher said...

There's an illusion
in the heart of all my clouds
as they rub their hands
and send out fleshy
balls of booming sound and light
to which you ever
snuff your drippy nose
and wipe your eyes with knuckles
made of ancient cork.

Damn. Thanks.