Death meanders freely,
eying Its next prize.
Its scythe drags
across the ground,
cutting ventilation tubing
with a flick of Its wrist.
Pestilence gurgles happily,
climbing from the depths
of helpless, full lungs,
clogging all hope along the way,
dribbling out of mouths,
crimson and white.
War has sheathed Its weapons
for this time words and action
are sharper than steel and iron.
Everyone's life is in each other's hands.
The blindest aren't those who can't see
but those who refuse to.
YOU ARE READING
Sitting Here Thinking (2020-2022)
PoésiePoetry of varying subjects and construction, the second of three. Written while sitting anywhere, lost in thought about everything and anything. Accolades: #1 Thought Provoking 2/26/2020 #1 Self-Reflection 3/22/2020 #1 Creative Writing 7/24/2020 #3...
