Poem: Toasty Corpses

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Toasty Corpses

Pardon me while I seethe.
Quietly of course, I was taught manners,
not to burn down the building
because of a splinter.
Some days it feels like a flaw.

But seethe I will,
at those who expect grace
and give none,
the advantage takers
who like their bridges burnt
just so they can feel warm
for a day,

blithely unconcerned at the doors they lock,
or the corpses they leave behind.
Someone else’s concern.
Someone else’s fault.

And those of us taught grace,
that most inhuman of traits,
who struggle with it,
who would far rather join in the burning
and dance in its light, get to live in the damnation of splinters,
toasty corpses in the night,
seethe and burn from the inside

out.

 

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