I wish I was his cigarette,
Have him breathe me in so deeply
Wrap his lovely lips around me
Set fire to me, And
Burn
Slowly for him
To be the thing he holds
In his artful hand
Oh, what a lucky thing
That cigarette

Entwined, despair and hope
As two strands of the one rope...

dreamed of devastation,           flew miles        low

over concrete .   skeletons,      bones of the thing.



all is dust, as dust we have become.                 slow.



grey.    nothing moves here no more.          no sighs.



they have forgotten us.        we have forgotten them.



are we  now the bones of what we were?



bad night dreaming.



sbm.

They want us marching to the sound of fear,
Footsteps dull, thudding in-time with one another,
Eyes always fixed on the horizon,
Searching for a sun that always lies just too below to see.
We cannot go back;
Nighttime has already fallen
And we march ever forward, chasing sunlight or outrunning darkness.
We are never sure which.
The stars are no longer the pinpricks that show us a glimpse of Heaven
Poking through the blanket of vast, lonely nothingness.
They have mutated into the eyes of our enemies,
And they surround us and outnumber us a million to one.
They want us to move forward, but no matter how far we march,
We are followed by more and more eyes, twinkling and menacing.
Black silhouettes of trees stand against indigo skies,
Swaying so erratically in the wind that we swear they're chasing us.
March faster than the trees, faster than the stars' light can travel.
March faster than the sound of the war drums can reach our panicking ears.
They are here. I can hear the drums.
Can you hear the sound of drums?