The Terrorist

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Max Reif

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His wounds so deep
they cease to hurt,
for hurt is all he knows,

he has become
a rolling ball of pain

that speaks, in actions, pain,
says one word to the world — 'pain',

and will not stop
until the world's aflame.

Oh, if we could
take him in our arms

until there's nothing
left of pain

but small, white birds
that fly away

Max Reif

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

poem poems pain hurt Wounds

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COMMENTS OF THE POEM

Joseph Daly 12 July 2006

A great piece Max. I am in awe of the direction you have taken: concentrating more on form than on content. That is not to say that the piece is void of content. The flow of this is great (even if I have my doubts about the 'message') . I like that you left a wider space between the 4th and 5th stanzas. It gives the piece a classic sonnet feel with the empty space indicating a change in direction.

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