she longs for
the day when the rich
will steal from
themselves to build
a poor man's home
tin can pets . . .
the things madness
can't grasp
is it madness
longing to revisit
at times
the pitch black quiet
of measured breaths?
the smell of
wind, the voice of quiet
. . . long nights
the edge . . .
watching mini guns
water
what sanity
had forgotten
twilight dusk . . .
a bad dream cradled in
a soldier's arms
the quiet . . .
when night's watered
with napalm
and stars huddle in
underground caves
robert d. wilson
No comments:
Post a Comment
Please feel free to make comments.
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.