On the plains of the city…
a descending wind brings its sorrow south;
Those bones are bleached now by time and regret.
The skulls in the red boulder draws are our skulls,
grinning in disbelief because, in thrall to the rich,
we honored their power and believed in them
when they ordered us to rise up in arms
against their enemies… then they cracked
the pistol-shots that drove us, herded us
on the plains of the city.
a descending wind brings its sorrow south;
Those bones are bleached now by time and regret.
The skulls in the red boulder draws are our skulls,
grinning in disbelief because, in thrall to the rich,
we honored their power and believed in them
when they ordered us to rise up in arms
against their enemies… then they cracked
the pistol-shots that drove us, herded us
on the plains of the city.
© BH, 2023
Another poem rendered in parts. For the illustration and also for the idea that each segment has a kind of stand-alone-ness.
Above all, it's a suite / poem about the madness and panic we've engendered in the world today. For all the good it does us.
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