NaPoWriMo Saturday, April 17

To the rock of Sisyphus

a tide, yes a tide of blood.

We say so weedy a race

only happens in mythology. 

There the famished plump

the bellies of their camels in wars

empty of complaints.

Unicorns thin out in paper jungles

to survive the vinegar of our contracted livers.

Uta’s stare, and the absolute silence

of slender bony people wearing

black cornflowers, and purple cabbage-roses

on their surgically-enhanced-lipped smiles

at funerals revive our fears.  There is no Shangri-La,

no forest, canyon, or wilderness far enough

to stand and guard against their stiff

and lean assault on peace.

©  Sergio A. Ortiz, April 17, 2010