Like kids acting
like a crowd of kids
got small fire all right,
again that strange mood
of speculation so foreign;
when lit from above or
below–what was a face?
Inarticulate in effort
to express mankind’s
essential illness, living
through circumstances
in which incantation
was powerless to help.
Ground was turned over
near the pig-run and
droppings that steamed
(bent down as if loved them
and sized them up… )
at last, gave up and
Looked back; saw the
white teeth and dim eyes,
the blood—and gaze held by
ancient, inescapable recognition
softly surrounded by a fringe
of inquisitive creatures beneath
the steadfast constellations.
Semicircle of little boys,
bodies streaked with colored clay,
sharp sticks in hands, standing
on beach making no noise at all,
and in the middle, (he) wept
for the end of innocence, the
darkness of man’s heart, and the fall.
A “found poem” constructed entirely of quotes from William Golding’s classic, Lord of the Flies. A prompt I discovered on Tweetspeak Poetry’s lovely site…I receive a daily poem from them.
