Savannah's Game ~ poem

March 31, 3009

I blindly look up into twisted

Dreadlocks, death grey from birth.

They convulse and twitch, they hang

In the preserving salt filled breeze,

Unwilling to sit unperturbed,

Tranquil as twisted thorns adorning

The crackl'd and dried naked limbs

Of da pile of stock bodies beneath;

We are the silent corpses down death row.

They deafly watch their condemned

Bodies, pendulums swaying, bumping,

Whispering of the night's unheard truths:

Of in' cent murders and plagiarized crime.

All the while the gnashing coal black

Ticks and dust red mites tremble and fall

Fall upon the thrice washed hands, and

Damnéd spot of the Queen of Hearts,

Masking her soul-deep stains with itching bites.

My hand is blessed, dyed red and black

I play my three women, lost in their royal colors

As two lowly jacks raise their scepters, breaking the 3 fates' distant gaze

And the smoke rings lay upon my head, my own Caesar's crown

I stand, so small within their perversity,

The white spotlight, the crescent moon's gaze.

Waiting, without breath or fear, for my turn

For freedom to call out my forgotten name

I can taste the last bitter sweat death left

Running down onto my wet forehead

Each impatient drop of persecution sliding in

My sealed mouth, through these bloodied

Splits, my lips, repulsing from pain, gasp for more

I pass my best 3 to the right, a gift of life perhaps

Sitting quietly awaiting fate, I watch as my death approaches

Sliding frictionless towards my red hand, an obsidian blade

Cutting out my voice as I lay down my cards - I fold.