Abandon Your Make-believe Scars

What perverse logic sits
In this carousal of mendaciloquence
That also weighs the saints
To kneel on their grinding pride?

Why can you not see
That you held the hilt
Of the dagger in my back?

Why do you always weep
And never dare pry
Inside the sanguinary havoc
Dangling in your dexterous hands?

Defenestrate my place
From your bogus scars

And as I judge your scornful visage
And molt from this proud wrath
I become one with what
I always fervently despise

In this den of iniquity
We are all savage underneath.

poem by Norman Santos
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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