Wearing hard hats in permanent wars leaves irony trapped
between bricks.
Whimsical cement barrages the broken man,
as if God trembled on his throne of Gold.
Sadistic laughs echo out of a war torn time;
rivers of blood only flow in June.
A rag with embroidered initials dances in the sky,
only visible by the truths that it once told.
I swear I saw an angel in the sky.
The signature of man is only visible once the
rifles stop shrieking.
This humid day leaves hearts cold.
Once eyes set upon a hope gone black, all is lost.
Only the howling wind knows what we have done.