They come, they go,
The demons of their souls
Its falling like snow,
The ashes of their bones
Trudging on through the snow,
Is a little boy in black,
No more! no more!
Scream the sniper shells now buried in his back
The crowd sees naught but all,
Silent screams echo off the walls
The haze is back all around,
Ready to run another aground
BOOM! Sounded the rifle,
And the air shattered
Blood drizzled the sight,
Like pastel colours on white
Neither a sound made,
Nor a whisper heard,
The shrieks of the fallen slowly fade,
The butcher walks inside; no regrets, no guilt
The dead have no pain
YOU ARE READING
Rhythms From a Quarter Life
PoetryI will die the very moment this poetry collection is complete, not a moment more, not a moment less. Yet, what worries me is not death but never being able to complete this poetry collection. These are the rhythms resonating from a quarter-life.
