POETRY

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Liberté!

“J’accuse!” he screamed.
But I took it more as pretense,
An ugly affectation,
Than any passion for
Anarchy or Truth.
Such is the way of the hypocrite,
Weekend revolutionaries,
Who shine the boots
And know, in time,
They will lick the leather.
That the Earth could be flat
And I could leap from its crust
And burn in the cold void of space!
This is my prayer for the future
And still…
If the sleep broke like morning darkness,
Waking and horrifying
To the pitch of divine violence,
I would be the first to rise
And drink from the fountain of blood.