A poem from Henry Goodwin.
Boris – Henry Goodwin
There must be a way to decimate this overstay.
To cast adequate aspersions or at least forge a way.
To expose the farce that continues to betray.
What little is left.
Of anything.
I can’t be alone in this, being generations astray
From the mind held petulant in prosed decay.
My blood runs cold again.
Money and fear control further more.
Vintage directives, aid the bloodied encore.
Where is the voice beyond this face we endure?
The expressionist ventriloquist with a bell ringing paw.
Constant in fumble, still scratching down doors.
A progressive contortion…
A conduit of vindication, with flat footed claws.