Patterns
Tides draw in.. The perfect setting, sea crying on land..
Dying in sand- young men just cover their eyes with their hands..
Freedom is banned- gun shots smash through skulls..
Sun blots dead bodies.. Hearts cease passion.. The hatred’s too full..
Numb fingers pull triggers.. emotion cleaned from hearts..
Killing in the name of…? Their devotion deceiving their smarts..
They fall apart- barely men, but a life full of memories imbedded in heads..
Legs shredded and bent.. sunburst patterns of life too soon to be bled..
If only instead, voices could have overrun all this violence..
Even silence has a larger presence than this.. someone just lost control of their guidance..
Bright like the trident.. Angel’s rise.. to skies- through the smoke to the white..
Made bright by so many young lives supplying the nights..
In sight, is freedom.. turn guns on selves, escape by biting bullets..
You might see them.. haunting the horizon like fighting for breath in your gullet..
Sit and mull it.. every grain of sand in hands.. is another life spent..
So life fulfill it, for these men died, so that futures are kept, and the torture relents.
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