Wednesday, April 13, 2011

On The Other End Of Eight / new poems 2011

Un Gioco Al Massacro

In between
nothing but blood

Blotting out the pastel chalk
of eviscerated summers we lost

And the distant, strained remains
of what once was children's laughter

Forgotten in a wind of selfish wants
and a war of words waged long between

Butchers pale at either end of their regret
where the rain falls red but washes away no sin

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