Just as the vulture casts a racing shadow
Over the windswept landscape, The rifles cast shadows over The children's dreams, Breaking their backs with the burdens Of hatred and malice. Whirring like the wings of a thousand locusts, The bullets sing a song of mourning. Bugged out and shot up, The children March forward into the iron rain. Eyes grim and touched by the ocean spray, Manic grins masking their innocence, No sounds but the thud of bodies dropping and the frantic frenzy of the locusts. Driven into the fight by men with guns, Desperate for someone to take their place, Passing on afflictions and addictions alike. So the child's eyes take on that same cold, No reflection but the barrel of a gun.
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The screeches of howler monkeys buffet their ears,
Slow roasting above an open flame Shimmering painted faces poking and prodding, Artfully crafting a golden crisp. An even, slow burn, to roast throughout till The meat falls off the bone, Tender and juicy. Paula would be proud. The pounding drums match the pace of their hearts, eyes flitting every which way, Still denying their newfound place at the feast. The guests of honor, the centerpiece of the cornucopia. A culinary masterpiece, the most coveted dish. Brown skin glistening with sweat and spice, Just how Paula taught them. The sand-beaten awning is touched by the crimson glow of the twin suns,
relentlessly harsh beams illuminating all, no respite to be found. Grieving figures roam the sands, Guarded against the harsh bite of the wind, Wrapped in scavenged and stolen cloth, Raiding untarnished souls. Walls once high and mighty, now buried by the dunes, remnants of the past, The sand reclaims all good things. A hummingbird in a sepia landscape
Flitting from flower to flower, leaving streaks of hope behind Perched on a branch, A beacon shrouded by sepia A light to follow in the muck Showing me the way, The way to love living To revel in the sweet kiss of the morning breeze To love my fellow travelers To let slip the mask Wings whirring once again Time dulls the colors of my remembering Dulls all but the somber oxblood scars Touched by the ocean winds Isn't it odd?
The way the floor just drops out from under you Once your support, your last line of defense Gone without fanfare. Fingernails
Grasping at nothing Wanting more than anything to bleed Bleed out and leave these troubled waters behind Torn from their fingers, Deprived of familiarity until familiarity becomes the void Grasping at fleeting wisps of days past Longing to be ripped out, Bloody and present Aware of the burning sensation Fingernails now hammered deep into the lifeline Drowning now a fireside story A fairy tale ending for a pipe dream As the light fades and lungs are slowly replaced by liquid, The fingernails still thrash, Grasping to be cut. My mind is a prison
Bars of self hate and guards of bullies past Longing to end it, but trapped You can't escape your thoughts No matter how hard you try, All you can do is change them I only know one way to change All it takes is a small sacrifice An offering to pacify my thoughts An olive branch extended, Then swiftly redirected And for that moment, I'm free The thoughts are gone, all that I am is Burning, consumed by the sweet respite Blessed to hurt again Blessed to feel the sting of the cold blade, Liberating me from my thoughts Taking the bad with the blood, A small sacrifice. Give me the bravery to hold my blade and rush
Running towards release Give me the strength to take that step Walking to freedom Give me the courage to squeeze Igniting the spark of self control Give me what I want. Give me an out. The road is long and winding. Bullshit.
The road is short and strewn with debris. Speed above all. That's the mantra these devils live by. Born to drive. Born to die. Racing to their demise with a childish euphoria, blind to the inevitable conclusion. As the dogs of hell bear down upon us,
my compatriots smile with glee, a manic frenzy of the heart, our deepest desires. Finally, we have found where we belong. |
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