Buzzing
cries are muffled
under forests of
crimson flags
that march towards
the city square,
rippling with intent.

Banners are crude
in attacking today
but naive
when dreaming
what could be:

‘Poetry is in the streets’
they cry,
‘Tis forbidden to forbid!'

Granite towers high above
protruding into nothingness,
sheathed in angry cloud as

rulers sit inside,
poker-faced,
pondering
Inevitability?

...

Well-placed muskets
spew forth shrapnel
as white-hot death
enters bodies
that fall to the ground,
their fists still clenched
in unyielding rocks.

Out leak scarlet legacies;
The blood is striking
against the snow.

...

A forgotten placard sits,
buried half in mud.

Red letters still visible
it reassures

that two and two
no longer
make four.