Poetry is three hawks soaring the sky in circles, with eyes of war gazing down upon the land of love below.
Poetry is the furrowed brow and quizzical look flashed when the prospect of a large increase in discretionary military spending is raised without the slightest hint of irony that the idea isn’t at least a little bit suspect in its lack of logic.
Poetry is the sound of dissidence off in the distance, drawing ever-nearer with each new beat of the drum.
Poetry is a restoration of renaissance in the hearts and minds of humanity.
Poetry is a raucous cry for revolution after it’s been made crystal clear that such a process must always begin within.
Poetry upgraded its nuclear arsenal with advanced technology; it’s a bitter pill to swallow; it’s a heavy cross to bear.
Poetry was a fly on the wall during your smoky backroom dealings.
Poetry called shenanigans on all your chicanery.
Poetry placed a bloody rag over its eyes, felt the sting of salt, closed off the wounds, drifted toward midnight black, watched neon blue mandalas appear, waited for the sound of rooster.
Poetry populated the earth with seven billion islands, yet managed to arrange them all on the same map.
Poetry is a simulation unto itself, but likes to play games at the park with all the other kids on Saturdays.
Poetry laid down the gauntlet, doubled down on its bet, kicked cans down the street; however, it always looks up at the end of the effort and smiles.
Poetry is laced with heavy propaganda because the fake corporate news finally took off its gloves.
Poetry swings for the fences, but is still satisfied with a triple every now and then; as long as there are less than two outs and we have a contact hitter heading to the plate.
Poetry promises there will be peace after this chaos comes to a close.
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