Dust Children

Here, away from the world,

even cold days are hot.

Stream children cry dust,

an Intruder came

and left a bloody, oxen spot.


I hear the Phantoms scream

and old Banshees wail.

The rumble of distant armor.

Noise, never ending, without fail.


I try to send my mind home

to things I try to feel,

warm kisses, cool days, cold beer.

So sad, it's that world, not this, that is surreal.

The End

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