poem09 Jul 2012 05:27 pm
It was quiet in Golem Town.
Clay feet treading along the
soundless, circular, mud pathways,
plodding patiently towards the end of the days.
Faces stretched tight into happy grimaces,
Each night, re-writing the words of their
lives along the hum of the static-fresh TV.
Quiet in Golem Town, until the fancy girl
came with her pinching fingers grabbing
scripts from gawping, gaping mouths.
Lightening in her brain instead of simple silt.
Smiling, rewriting their rhythmic respectable rules.
See the clay men fighting,
slow fists, brother against brother,
for the honour of rubbing their mud hands
against her white dress.
See their black glass eyes, smashed. 
Gems make a pretty necklace for a fancy girl
with dirty wings.

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