the city
tastes of gunpowder. we
are heavy with it, replete,
shattered into cobblestones, padded
across the grass of parks
& citysides. the trees
are leaning; they
cloak our hair in ravaged branches, clutch
at passing silent faces, &
drip leaves against
the stone.
our hilltops are echoes, are mobs,
are completed by
the muffled feet of children
grown old. it is
winter; the air bites, gunmetal,
amputees with grit
between their teeth. cut loose
the summer. it
has ravelled out again, and
we are tired. we are
blackened. read the faces
and hands, open your senses to the night
and pluck flowers
from the sky. it is
too late.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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For some reason, this makes me think of the Fort Hood shooting.
I adored your phrasing in the beginning, the "we are heavy with it"... seems so disheartening to me. This whole piece does, really. You've definitely captured such an intense moment, even if it's not about the Fort Hood shooting. Excellent, really.
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