Savannah
Jun 16, 2024
Our petulant of freedom—
(that’s not how you use that word)—
boards a train bound up-south;
Might I pen a song
weary of artistic discord?
Genealogy returns contradiction —
Half Savannah,
quarter a home,
and the other,
caught up in branches of life.
Onomatopoeia —
wretched sound of feeling
as neurotic veins harbor
saplings of italian wine and poem.
Bullet-proof hearts
tipped while scorning
this, that and the other
woman about her word—
pulling wool and
scripture over the eyes.
But blessed is our church,
this place of sacred worship.
Congregation doing the best they can,
empty of any applause —
hoping royals don’t take the throne to
scold their background noise.
“If you expect nothing from somebody you are never disappointed.”- Sylvia Plath
