Fourteen Lines

Thousands

with too many wounds,

bodies of stitches

hard to breathe,

earth quick rolling

sky sparks of war,

never ending

babies ready to march,

madmen mumbling

counting their gold,

drinking their mix

of death and blood,

they do not care of the innocent

only their lust for themselves.

Seven Lines

She’s over there with knees bent

her right jaw against the dirty floor

her arms behind her back

against her will

she died yesterday

the rich laughing

between the explosions of their wars.

Three Lines

Drone swarms

becoming alive

without hearts.

Too Late to Count

Someone lighting the last fuse….