Shots were shot inside your walls
by hands too hot to stop the fall
of bodies, wretched and angelic,
hanged and carefully laid upon your plains.

Deeds were done in the redbrick corners of your streets. Only mourners then remained in the memories of pain, and the folklore fear born by your command still stands to stain your hands.

Shots were shot to echo through the mountains. My idea of a summer death was real and, Alas, the trusting eyes of childish lies felt space-time tear and turned themselves to glass.

I cleaned my childhood home in honey light - a flight away from you, through pain. I fight your urge to overpower money and stand tall,
crouching low to scrub the stone floor of many childhoods' home.

My ears no longer scream in pain of nightmare visions, still seeing the shots you fired. Seeing your fire no more, I long for lore and love of mice. This year I'm under watercolour skies and listening to stories of light and newborn lies.