Pulse

Come morning next
we are tired of tears,
Flowing as they do from
dark expanse and rage.

Only one voice remains,
Still heard, and violent.
It echoes from cracks
that tore the night.

Hatred’s howling choked
thick air, and left a void,
to be filled with
gaping wounds, bleak scents.

Rising sun’s sweet kiss
cannot calm the hot brow,
Desolate beneath the sky,
Held by familiar despair.

Come morning next
we are tired of tears,
of stones, of fire, of rope,
of bullets, and of bombs.

pulse

Advertisements

So, what do you think?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s