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| Holly R. Holt |
slaughter the day
sunlight pales night’s ebonyand folds over, spans out,
with silk of baby blue,
but night doesn’t
strike out in hate
to harm the heavens
the only night
that hates enough
to slaughter the day
rests in the hearts
of brutal men,
servants for
the fires of hell
Nonbeliever
sometimes, I’d rather give upthan listen to hope whispering
because if it was such a solid force
why does it have to flutter,
barely aloft, in the first place?
doubt, fear—they’re louder,
easier to crawl up into
and weep for better days,
if any ever were before,
because brilliant minds can craft
sadder, darker illusions
than those who firmly believe
rose-petal pathways align perfectly
with words promising unity
but, ah—fools are believers,
while minds constantly searching
for another meaning in simplest intentions
no matter how often they’re uttered
because something is always amiss
in honeyed words on sunny days—
these are the minds of geniuses,
so sure of themselves,
and so broken, too.
The Final Word
we talked about Fitzgeraldthe way sunlight does,
carrying the syllables
of a begotten era
through curtains, along bureaus,
classically traipsing around corners
like the whisper
of a chapter’s end
and coffee added punctuation
where it was meant to be,
as Last Tycoon was
destined to end—
by F. Scott’s hand,
sweet and tender,
with all the promise
of completion,
but dying gets in the way of life
and few desire to exist, sleepless,
so we say our goodbyes,
curse the skies, shut our eyes,
prepare for the inevitable,
and abandon our tongues,
our pens, our keyboards,
and the chance
of one final word.
