Venus
Her arrival comes
When the winged-ones
Are all gone
What an ironic
Punishment
Love and war
They were supposed
To conceive
Something we earthlings
Call peace
But it seems we're still split
Into sects of save the trees
And warrior's armor
How's it possible
To violate one's own will
Did you?
Did you?
Bright shadows remain a mystery
Mystery always equals death
But despite her injuries
She still hasn't left
Peccavimus
Is written on Venus
As the crowd throws
Old tomatoes on her stage
Chanting 'he'
In the name of progress
In the name of
All that they can't understand
She's made of all the skins you throw away
She's made of all the skins you throw away
Published by Lucy Tonic
Prose/Poetry Writer Movie/Music Critic View profile
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