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

4 comments about this poem Feed