Poetry

The point was, he had swallowed 
the pawn. 
The world rips apart 
and ultimate wintering 
sets in. 
 
Shy of one truth, 
the hour of reckoning demands 
the blood facts. 
You could have destroyed 
me if I were to sing. 
 
There were no crisis. Dismemberment 
went on to squeeze honey 
from the hapless victims chanting 
Hail Mary. 
I sizzled in vain. 
 
Choking on your trumped up 
victory, you will break in the house 
to find the silver god stolen from 
a golden mantel. 
 
You climb on a tall tree and 
then disappear in clear blue.