With Love_________
Black suits step out from shadows
with pristine promises of light.
I can taste the sand, the gritty
guilt of my nationality. The warm air
Immigrates from hell, the gates have opened,
as promised.
Burnt flags in tatters, gripped
by impatient wind, whispers
of death roam Europe.
For every soul, a valentine sent
with a photocopied signature.
Satan is smiling, regardless of capture.
Every time you kill a weed,
two more roses suffocate.
With Love _____________
Copyright © Phil Naylor | Year Posted 2005
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