by Jack Eichorst, Colin McGrath 2009
Penguin, why are the mountains looming
And pushing children down into trenches?
Forlorn, I question not the quiet crooning
Forlorn, I wake to frosted and lifeless benches.
Across the callous tundra I seek my only equinox.
Billowing snowdrifts and weeping ladies litter the ancient streets,
While I sigh sweetly at thoughts of masochism.
Only yesterday did the sting of inimical bedlam wake me.
Penguin, why has the clouded morning transcended the forests,
Breaking into the crust of time with no apprehension?
Forlorn, the panda crawls without his supple dignity,
Forlorn, the most ignorant species will nonetheless search for honor.
Father time: whence the church bell that rang in my captain's ears?
Without it he is overcome by eternal damnation.
Tarnished and rotting, he satiates the serpent's appetite.
Whetting its desires, he tastes the acrid rain upon his forked tongue.
Children, how do all antiquated forms consecrate our daily expulsions?
Bliss never is what seeps between the sheets.
Sullen, I caress my shattered and trembling frame of hopelessness.
The only solitude we share today under false skies is calamity, Penguin.
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