Tonight's Poet Corner: Tra-la-la Doom
Tra-la-la Doom
by Belinda Roddie
And the stranger picks a banjo as the
sun seeps red from out between its
unforgiving fingers, the flare pulsing,
nebulae convulsing, betraying sense of
emotion to the shrapnel flying every
which way.
It was not meant to be like this.
The pounding of feet in a
rambunctious display of pride,
spicy hot, served in plastic bottles,
splashed onto smiles desiring cool
tongues. And then the smoke rose. And
then the red spread. And
then the doom fell.
by Belinda Roddie
And the stranger picks a banjo as the
sun seeps red from out between its
unforgiving fingers, the flare pulsing,
nebulae convulsing, betraying sense of
emotion to the shrapnel flying every
which way.
It was not meant to be like this.
The pounding of feet in a
rambunctious display of pride,
spicy hot, served in plastic bottles,
splashed onto smiles desiring cool
tongues. And then the smoke rose. And
then the red spread. And
then the doom fell.
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