by Tom Mcmurray

Within my breast I carry ancient death
with faces pale and white as marbled clay.
So purged by guilt I struggle with my breath
which carries napalm scent of yesterday.

The broken colors born behind my lids,
are monumental rainbows round a pit
where hues of crimson-reds crisscross the grids -
more bloody lines and squares that always fit,

profanely perfect plastic memories,
of riddled bodies huddled, on the ground,
where rotted skin slips off fatalities
as ragged maggots slither-squirm around.

The jungle flora breathes forth mystic sighs
as soldiers wander through symbology.
They see familiar phantom's floating eyes
that catapult to horrid memory.

No temple of communion colonnades.
No transubstantiation in the heat.
No priestly servants hidden in the glades.
No promises of paradise wrapped neat.

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Poetry: This life

by Tom Mcmurray

Poetry: This life

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