In a dream 
I feast on frozen fields.
With the campfire fiend at the tree line, a place to sleep in the dirt below the frost line
The brazen and the bold dive between the arrows of a coward’s bullet
Cold steel from a hot barrel, seeks warm flesh to make a statement.
Bones rattle in anger as they lay upon the ground. 
Relics of Violence,
 A mosaic street made of bullet casing and blood soaked bandages, 
A rich tapestry,
 But a haunting canvas.
Sounds of horror lose there meaning when children’s tears only water next years crop.