Our dreams haunted us like winter kisses skin,
The type of linger that often speaks of sin.
It is unforgettable, the atrocities committed that day,
Now Little Samuel has no daddy with whom he can play.
Had we regretted it, upon seeing color leave his face?
We were too preoccupied to think, as, back home we raced.
Now I wonder how long he laid there in the snow,
Due to disturbed children he didn't even know.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
Our dreams haunted us like winter kisses skin,
The type of linger that often speaks of sin.
It is unforgettable, the atrocities committed that day,
Now Little Samuel has no daddy with whom he can play.
Had we regretted it, upon seeing color leave his face?
We were too preoccupied to think, as, back home we raced.
Now I wonder how long he laid there in the snow,
Due to disturbed children he didn't even know.
I'm a writer before a poet, and so I wanted to transcend the bridge between the two literary forms in this narrative poem. Enjoy!
