Religious War
By Beverly Greene
NOTE: This poem is protected by international copyright laws and may NOT be reproduced in any form without Beverly Greene's expressed and written consent.
Streets full of midnight
and hearts full of dark
they stalk looking for victims.
Red and yellow burn
where their eyes oughta be,
with licking flames
marking their cheeks.
Left and right,
steel-tipped boots
kick past the lost
and onward to destruction.
Smoke surrounds them,
murky and stinging,
flat and gray,
smelling of rape
and fresh woman blood.
Seeking, seeking,
not a vagina in sight.
Any girl will do.
The women have all
been gone through.
They lay now rotting
below a marble monument
to the exploits of men -
the exploited.
Marching, marching
forever onward,
fueled by fear
turned inside out
to hate
of the womb
that created them,
home unknown.
The sticky blood
squishes free
from their clenched
fists.
Hitting, hitting
at whatever is
in reach.
Feeling, feeling
their way to death.
Rushing, rushing
backyard warriors
with no one left to fight.
Realizing their fate
they drop and cry
as the black cloud
of realization surrounds.
Smelling, smelling
one more left.
Find her, find her -
they all must die
or humanity
will take over again
and barbeque soldiers
will take up dolls,
abandoning their knives
and dooming us all
to civilization.
Where, where
can she be?
A seed of destruction
having the nerve
to deny giving herself
for slaughter
on our altar.
Blood, blood,
we need more blood
to change the tone,
to weigh the scale
against the sacred
flow of life,
to ease the inner
screaming
of memory.
Time, time
running all out.
Failing, failing
to survive
the one who got away,
apple in hand,
ready with the
sacred knowledge.
Tempting, tempting
the fate of all
to see the stars
not as jewels
to be plucked
and framed
on a doll's neck,
but as sparking eyes
watching
the children below
frolicking in their
garden of light,
chasing dreams
of the immortal.
How dare they
anoint us
with life's blood
and send us
on our way
shouldering
cosmic responsibilities
we'd rather
pack away
neatly,
tightly,
surely
in black binding.
Lost, lost,
unable to find
our way home -
and all because
of HER.
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� 2001 Beverly Greene owns all rights to this original poem.
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