The smell of dying flowers.
chadwick
Posts: 21,157
The smell of dying flowers.
War is spilling color with roses,
each thorn
a tearing gouging instrument
of iron,
blood and fire.
The Elysian Fields
grow these vineyards by hand
tilling the battle grounds
where we fight to die
to scream tears
in rage.
A pleasurable sword
across flowers flung down
broken off under dying empty lives
by the endless number count is our freedom home.
Each soul significant to the soil stained so red
so green so burnt under the sun
even on fire under raindrops
and somehow a few flowers still bloom
when not scared.
War is spilling color with roses,
each thorn
a tearing gouging instrument
of iron,
blood and fire.
The Elysian Fields
grow these vineyards by hand
tilling the battle grounds
where we fight to die
to scream tears
in rage.
A pleasurable sword
across flowers flung down
broken off under dying empty lives
by the endless number count is our freedom home.
Each soul significant to the soil stained so red
so green so burnt under the sun
even on fire under raindrops
and somehow a few flowers still bloom
when not scared.
for poetry through the ceiling. ISBN: 1 4241 8840 7
"Hear me, my chiefs!
I am tired; my heart is
sick and sad. From where
the sun stands I will fight
no more forever."
Chief Joseph - Nez Perce
"Hear me, my chiefs!
I am tired; my heart is
sick and sad. From where
the sun stands I will fight
no more forever."
Chief Joseph - Nez Perce
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