Poetry

The riot was within. 
Not getting along with social 
revolution you would lie 
on purple patch without seeking 
any privy. 
 
Who were the barbarians 
which were going to release 
the brutal pattern of bloodshed 
during sunset on 
the lake? 
 
A mistrial will dispatch 
the violence and you will drop 
dead on the dirt path leading 
to bed of roses. A theme will 
wait for the signing of the book. 
 
Someone punched you in solar 
plexus. You said, I don’t 
die daily to live.