What shall we drinkin the dark of the dry sand,
in our burned out world?
How shall we count
the collateral numbers,
of the dead...
after the arguments cease?
Who shall we impress,
by our piercings,
our body desecration's...
who will clean up our remains,
in the stinging smoke...
at the end of days?
Does it really matter...
this conjecture...
that we live,
that we are mad...
that we will end?
Is there any recourse,
but to press along...
to spit our broken teeth
upon the land...
to stumble round the limbs
detached upon the ground?
For, this is war...
the pretty sight
you worshipped and adored...
in every home...
in every married bed,
in every contention and revenge...
you shouted
that you wanted it to end...
well, now it has.
Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016 Deming, New Mexico
Photo Credit: Phys.org, Catastrophic Darkness
No comments:
Post a Comment