Boiled Tomatoes

Boiled Tomatoes
I will keep you in my prayers,
practicing German,
long formalized lines,
hoarding your perfect smile.
You ignore the words,
of the prophets,
mumbling something,
about the reformation.
The cream swirls around,
in your coffee cup,
a slow mixture,
of ideas.
You contemplate suicide,
while I think of tomatoes,
how the skin comes off,
when boiled.
She speaks to,
blindfolded Masons,
it’s always some conspiracy,
with fork in hand.
She is frightened inside,
hanging on her cross,
crucified by ignorance,
and captivated by the deception.
It pulls on invisible strings,
the direction is unknown,
a finite dream,
that wraps us in its cocoon.
You describe this feeling,
no comfort in the hope,
so sad and tender,
touching on the old form.
Blindfolded by stupidity,
to die alone,
staring back at the tragedy,
no more kind hearts.
Deep within you,
this strumming chord,
eludes us more,
this a greater fear.
The high price of promise,
a way of turning,
from green to red,
scarves on your head.
The direction outside,
a cold view,
frosts my spectacles,
such a terrible cost.
I am angered,
by the future’s demands,
a true American,
such words.

© Deep Piercing Cut 2008