Landfall, Pt.3 Poem by John Parsons

Plath was correct.
Social perfection is martyrdom. You have no
Children, just a bunch of medals

Destined to rot down with you
Into Gullibility’s Dirt. Pampered
With the idea that war is a-okay.

You are in the coffin, with the two-faced trumpets
Blaring your dirge and a hymn
To Some Idiot In Washington.

You re-taught me many things
From Admiration to Disappointment
With draconian stares and slaps

For my signing tick.
My hands spelt “fear” now “death
But, not just yet.

It’s rainy
Six days before I go to the Place
Where I met you

You won’t be there,
With no obligation to ever see
My own Customizable Gulag again.

My seizure’s over
It was semi-prophetic
I pray that it’s wrong.

But I must say:
Your Narcissistic Reflection
No longer suffocates me.

After all,
I was only daydreaming.