Seth Corry

It was written in a peculiar script.
Not that of a provocateur,
nor a redactive pundit.
Merely as a truth shouted into empty space,
an echo without a source.
 
It was written as clear as day,
in the safety of a bridge.
Thus only the alert would see
even if all would unknowingly agree.

It was in the engorged heart
of the once mighty giant
that the woman bathed.

Behind a social face of grace,
She washed in the blood of the butchered.
My brothers and sisters who had been condemned.
And she reveled in the pained, erroneous masses
that she keeps tight between her legs.
 
A cutthroat vulgar slur.
A snapping mangled cur.
Her streets run wet but not by rain,
For they run red by decree.
 
The city is under a haze.
A stupor brought on by her scent.
It numbs the nerves,
Keeping at bay the plan truth.
 
Babylon is burning.
It was written as clear as day,
yet no one seemed to care.

Once nerves are burned 
they don't notice flames.
Yet carnations shall grow, 
where ashes lay.
 
I haven’t seen it since.
Looking as if for a long-lost friend.
Perhaps my eyes have gone.
Or maybe the echo just moved on.