Solve me.  Fix me.  Save me.
You are the hail storm, each thrump a nail catching the coffin lid.
Go, eat your own sins, these bodies did not grow rigid on your account.
Blood-honey enigma, you draw pity-breath from your audience. Solve me
Fix me.  Save Me.   You promise your pieces will grease-slot into private places.
Then stir, a tornedo, a purpose.  A grey cog in the misery wheeled machine.
The dawn is a muddied fool to you.  The blinkered stars a memoriam
you insist on sharing, like a stale communion body.  You host and speak
for all of us gladly.  Your pain the only real connection we have to Him.
A Magpie in your jet long tailed coat, you gleam bottle tops, plucking
treasured coins from the eyes.  A black-hooded killer passing out redemption.
Pushed and shoved, we are the tin chink shudders to your magnetic whims.
Clip your feathers close - deliver your black rimmed code elsewhere.
Go back to picking over your children’s bones.

Jennie Owen

If you have any comments on this poem, Jennie Owen would be pleased to hear from you.