By: Michael Gerard

Rinse

Steady hands
Fists pre-bloodied,
Ready for the skirmish
Promised by tomorrow.

Trepidation calls out
Eagerly, contemptuously,
Nibbling at the frontal lobe,
Soon to be gnawing.

The day comes,
The room heats.
Smog muddies the air
as brutality steals our gazes.

###

Not Just Nine to Five

Dropping 95 lines,
95 shields all factory made –
That’s 95 talents employed
Against 95 talons

Forget a summer standstill;

We could have held Hell
steady, just above the throat,
A vulture circling until it
Runs out of breath.

###

Oh The Possibilities

Oh the options suffocate me.
The purpose//
I tread the sullen pathways,
My sweat ravines as my
My feet begin to crack and
Etch.