Social Commentary - More Of It: A Prophet's Price Poem by Charlotte Ballard

Terror means nothing more
Than a dip in stocks
When a board is bombed
No matter how much
Grass is grown
On the blood splattered
Dark maroon.

Just Dance, they say,
Just dance and drink the
Wine. No, wait. No wine
For us, if seventy-seven virgins
Wait. Limp, damp flesh
Too deeply grown for
Camels to ride.

Spirals circle,
Once and twice
And back again,
Waiting for the moment
To ripen into full flesh
Of a promise given by
A prophet gone tomorrow.
Whispering in wishes
And songs that were never
Meant to be sung
In a century never believed in.

Never prayed for,
Never hoped for.

And never meant to be
Twisted into bombs
Delivered in the trunk
of a beat-up van.