Carl Packman

Two Towns - Poem by Carl Packman

His masterpiece is rubbish and he pretends to smoke at a bus station,
In the distance a child converses with the last trace elements of his relation,
For the duration of our time, a wild fire will erupt sweeping all in its path,
Without restraint for human emancipation, at the tip of the fire is degredation.

Another part of town, a trio of salesman look around a gram of Dynamite, pondering,
A lady at home stares coldly into the wall trying to stop her mind wandering,
As a man near the lake wonders if anything is Good, and that whether there is someone who allows it,
Four small children in a park cry at the prospect of a thundering clap, but not realising its no use grumbling.

The masterpiece is centred around control, and how one controls everything they know,
But since everything I know, implies elements I cannot know, thus nothing is within my control,
The child is talking to a body, the remains of his Grampa in the bath,
So the nature of this child's feeling low, is that forever he will be all alone.

The fire was the result of a careless engagement between a cigar and an old cotten curtain,
In an office Department, at the top of the road, who started it? Nobody is certain,
The Dynamite is the interest of one man, but the salesman cannot sell it,
They would be responsible, though they are not asserting, for who the Dynamite is hurting.

Up the stairs, for hours on end, her husband has been with a different lady,
But she will avoid the inevitable pain, because the love she has for her husband is shady,
At the lake is where this man finally lost his faith, he won't oblige his daughter with a head scarf,
He knows now religion is maybe, a synthesis of good intention and crazy.

Rain is falling from the sky onto the ground, lightening strikes, the kids do cry,
Run to shelter up ahead, wipe the tears from off their eyes, to moan about the weather is a lie,
Their towns are apart but the rain is listening, the rain is listening shit,
But what is in a raindrops' sigh, Nothing! The rain itself is a lie.

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Poem Submitted: Tuesday, April 15, 2008

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