Words of anger, words of revenge, fly like dust through the air.
Words don’t settle; they are left twisting in the storms of our memory.
Ruptured by hate, splintered by division,
We can’t understand, what we cannot see.
Death and destruction borne out in their tears.
Bloody walls, spattered and spurts.
Easeful death is a luxury, Blasted to bits.
Women in black, wailing, searching with grief,
Swooning to coffins of sorrowful sacrifice,
As they look for solutions in their early mourning minds.
Remember he died for us.
High pressure remains.
No rain to wash our tears away, to breath life into the olive trees
That mask those who flee from the vacuum of violence.
Peace is a foreign language, we can’t understand.
Wasted shells to batter emaciated buildings,
Where children play; caught red handed.
I watch, they suffer; men sit in ruins, blaming each other.
Nobody wins; we all fall down.
1 Comment
November 10, 2008 at 2:24 pm
It just makes me sigh, if only….
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I doesn’t go into Twitter Shoe or I would add you, I just don’t think these networks are any good. B.C. seems best of a bad bunch.
But I do like your poetry, if I don’t do much poetry about these things it’s not because I don’t think about them.