Saturday, November 08, 2008


in the end
i say nothing

walk down this empty street instead
into the face of pale broken sunlight with
the lesser bones of priests ground into
fine powder beneath my feet

with the mother of my children
begging god for forgiveness

empty sounds from a bleeding mouth
empty hands cut off at the wrists
because the idea of war cannot be
considered w/out the idea of pain

the forest is where you run
only after all of
the cities have burned

being lost is what comes
after being alive

1 comment:

S.L. Corsua said...

A bleak, sobering picture you've depicted here. I imagine a painting of a war scene, with this as the accompanying poem.

It's been a blast reading your poetry (especially "a subtle disease." Cheers.