hollow pointed flowers
litter,
the war torn fields,
watered,
by the blood from human
carcass's
left,
after the battle.
now,
become mulch and food
to toxic soil's greed
the children
play
among the dry, white
bones
building clacking, castles
high
and scavenging the metal petals and kahki cloth
for with which,
they haggle, for food to buy.
their world of
decrepit decay,
exsists.....
under a cloud of grey
and with only the
memory of parents,
they make their own way...
what once was green
is now brown
and what was was steel
is now rust, upon
the ground.
but not the hollow flowers,
somehow,
they retain their gleam
and they glitter,
like diamonds,
in the harsh daylight.
they, the children,
the keepers of this world,
know not how
to smile or cry.
they live to survive
to them simple things,
like joy and laughter
are myths.
they have no time
to ask why...
but they love,
the little flowers,
that sit upon the sands.
the hollow pointed flowers
that feel right, within small hands.
and the songs
they sing, are murky
as to the prayers
they say,
before bedtime....
just, undefined mantras.
taken from the before.
when the gods,
were advertisements
and everybody suceeded.
everybody was needed,
everybody was blind,
to creed and colour
and the world was
fine and dandy.
and mothers loved
their children,
fathers walked beside.
this, before the sundering
before the parents,
fought and fought
and died.
leaving just dusty bones
in toxic fields
and bullet blossomed
flowers
to mark the loss
of life...
to mark the loss
of living...
to mark the end of
fighting....
to mark the end of
destruction...
after the dying was done
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 6:57 PM UTC
hollow pointed flowers
litter,
the war torn fields,
watered,
by the blood from human
carcass's
left,
after the battle.
now,
become mulch and food
to toxic soil's greed
the children
play
among the dry, white
bones
building clacking, castles
high
and scavenging the metal petals and kahki cloth
for with which,
they haggle, for food to buy.
their world of
decrepit decay,
exsists.....
under a cloud of grey
and with only the
memory of parents,
they make their own way...
what once was green
is now brown
and what was was steel
is now rust, upon
the ground.
but not the hollow flowers,
somehow,
they retain their gleam
and they glitter,
like diamonds,
in the harsh daylight.
they, the children,
the keepers of this world,
know not how
to smile or cry.
they live to survive
to them simple things,
like joy and laughter
are myths.
they have no time
to ask why...
but they love,
the little flowers,
that sit upon the sands.
the hollow pointed flowers
that feel right, within small hands.
and the songs
they sing, are murky
as to the prayers
they say,
before bedtime....
just, undefined mantras.
taken from the before.
when the gods,
were advertisements
and everybody suceeded.
everybody was needed,
everybody was blind,
to creed and colour
and the world was
fine and dandy.
and mothers loved
their children,
fathers walked beside.
this, before the sundering
before the parents,
fought and fought
and died.
leaving just dusty bones
in toxic fields
and bullet blossomed
flowers
to mark the loss
of life...
to mark the loss
of living...
to mark the end of
fighting....
to mark the end of
destruction...
after the dying was done
written after seeing a photo
of a sprig of flowers crafted
from hollow point bullet casings....
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