Shrapnel Poem by Michael Peters

Shrapnel



Marginal grass of recognition dwells
Near water of truth which in
Return is a house to harrier's nest
For his/hers deserted venter of entity.

What does it mean? Who knows?
Don Giovanni's opera's in the house.
Rubish words of distorted mind perhaps?
Well, shall we then get another schnaps?

Fill our heads with this no more.
It is better to go home
And forget that all this hustle
Is as meaningless as Rousseau.

Savage's instinct that dictates
That our life's have been in vain.
That our rations are but rations
Of a belly of our envy.

Green eyed monster of possession
Wants destruction of the way
Of our life's that's in the way
Of it walking upstraight's sessions.

Shall we give in to it then?
Let our guard down, be subservient
To a notion that is rational
But so hard with intuition?

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