Poetry

A monster from a tree 
jumps and runs around the bushes 
to mate. 
 
A blank statement 
is issued. The system groans 
and collective pshyche fails. 
 
A stark silence 
for the food for thoughts. 
I sit down to meditate- 
 
to find the bloody answer 
for white death. The dirty 
work to sweep the floor. 
 
It smells like an 
amputated leg. 
Do we need to draw a circle around the bomb? 
 
With a lie on your lips, 
are you going to negotiate 
with violence?