Broken

 

Broken

Broken legs, sat atop broken feet.

Shattered pot, hull of broken meat.

A crooked stick, a narrow string.

Sounds above, panic sleep.

Dirt cascading, ringing ears.

New sensation, age old fears.

Over, and over again bodies lie longways in rows along courtyards. Families made one, or two. Lost in the dust which hangs near and about war trodden dirt. The hills remember, and weep. As the sons and the daughters of all those around the world. Brighter lights may shine, but they shine in the eyes of those accused. The cascading plenty leaves narrow streaks of misery draped across our world. Every grape has been grown with the blood of the strong willed, and when the ground dries up the wine with it. Speak not, least ye be heard.



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