There sits a burned house
And a ravaged landscape
The latest to die in the flames
How I wish it were a nasty dream
Life is fragile
Like an old house
It deteriorates as it gets old
Watching us eradicate ourselves
Across the hillsides
Hundreds lay fast asleep
They're charred peasants scattered on dead fields
The latest to die in the conflict
What's the point in having kids
If all they have to look forward to is this
Gray skies and burnt children
Besides, they'll shoot the chicken before it hatches
I pull out my eyes so they can see again
Our lives like broken violins
The music halted in its tracks
The latest to die in the field
Seared hands towards the sky
Eyes like egg yolks
Stuck to their shells
Calling out to the clouds
Sitting in a rickety sailboat
Trying to leave the furnace
Only to see in the water
Lines and lines of dead
It's hard to admit wanting some pain
Until it comes back again
Then there's regret in that desire
How I wish it were a nasty dream
YOU ARE READING
Unwilled, and Other Poems
PoetryThis is a strange mix of poems. Some are about depression, gender identity, mythology, Communism, and there's even a few inspired by religious texts. The only poetry collection that has Ingmar Bergman, Buddhism and Ivan the Terrible in it. If there'...
