. The Poet's Beat .

. The Poet's Beat .
"A working class citizen is apt to see this country for what it's worth... A miasma of interlocking variations on differing demographics and geographies unlike any other inhabited space in the world. The American Dream. The rolling footloose hills and the upstanding Apache badlands where criminals cut bread with priests and the children of Hollywood. I am no different. Yet I am still brazen enough to think that the world is a playground built by the rugged hands of a hard-working man in order that my fantasies be materialized." -- P.P. Vonnersdale

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

The Sons of Switzerland

Sometimes I have no explanation for a poem...

The Sons of Switzerland have demanded my freedom,
and I vow to you...
they will rest uneasy until my chains are broken,
until the windswept fears of isolation have abandoned me
and I have been released from my lofty mountain tower.
They are heavy sleepers,
those Sons of Switzerland,
and good mercy (or quick death)
to the soul that disturbs that slumber.
From my barred window set high in the stone wall
I can see the Earth's history
stretched across craggy peaks dotting a black sea of mist.
Below my window is the story of my own history,
my passage of time scratched in the hard wall,
rock against rock.
The dried blood on my knees is the taste of salvation
that will rally my brothers around our crimson flag,
and I vow to you...
this fortress of death,
its banisters flecked with stars,
its awnings shadowing the moon,
its lifeless eyes that only comfort lifeless forms,
this fortress in all its blackened strength
will crumble before the Sons of Switzerland.
So noble are they,
so set on my redemption,
that no barrier of physical framework will prevent their rescue.
Your tombstones are etched not unlike my back
which has been carved over and over with the whip
whose penmanship has perverted my spine.
Your efforts to suppress my life,
to murder my soul,
to shackle me to the woes of miserable existence,
will soon be visited back upon you through a tribulation
this Earth has yet to know.
So to it they will go,
the rhythm of their marching has begun.
The Sons of Switzerland are coming to take me home.
They are dancing through the villages,
in the valleys,
up the crags,
and I will soon be dancing too.
The lonely night, the shrouded mountain,
is the stillness of my beating heart,
is the slow cadence of the explosion
that will torment my tormentors
and bring this place down around its granite knees,
crushed like the ribs under my pale skin,
a distant memory no more outstanding than any
of the other acuminous shelves that worship the sky.
They are watching you.
They are watching you.
The Sons of Switzerland are marching,
and I vow to you...
my freedom is imminent.


No comments:

Post a Comment