Poems ✍️

winnowing at the notion
of judgment as we ocularize
with antithesis, like charlatans
in lieu of sore antipathy,
and all which we've become
since our childhood brush -
with dove-kissed innocence;
how do we explain our arrogance,

so, now, what can we do
what can we say to justify us -
as perpetrators, desecrators,
steel cold bound menstruators
of all that's good and pure,
despite the 'Human Element',
an excuse sore absent of credence;

and, shame on us, the likes of us,
though mortal life is all we be-
for learning how to bastardize
purities that once beat strong
within good hearts, good souls;

will you dare to plead mortality
when destiny meets Judgment Day,
alone, at clockwork zero,
when He who has the final say
decides to wash His Sacred Hands-
of us all?

What do we do when the faces of
every clock- mirror the eyes of
Modigliani's cold, stone women?


©Frank J. Ryan, Jr.-2019
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