Lunar Martyr
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
He thought of just this one, this one, this one
— Again — Again — AGAIN — as if insane
With love, or something, powerfully as a gun
That blasts away at skull and gushed out brain
And blood, brain matter, something, splacked out gray,
Unworthy, though, since only reverence
Was worth destruction, worthy as his prey.
No other quarry but the severance
Of God and all that’s holy from man’s life
Would serve. If not a shotgun, then some threat
Of woe, perhaps a shogun’s moon-shaped knife,
Could slaughter where his love and turmoil met.
And what would he perceive could form the prize?
He wanted hate and love to canonize.
~ Phillip Whidden