Battling at the thought’s end. Ruined cities.
The last survivors were helped to escape
together with their unborn children.
Eyes tossing nervously. Fears floating on schizophrenic reality.
A ghost passed by resembling her,
yet it is not possible she survived of the massacre –
she risked her life,
bet our happiness.
Memories, naked, spring from the soul’s catacombs
to remind us the youth’s past.
We chose the way we wanted to lose,
the defeat hurts less.
Empty chairs looking at the sunset
like our blood was never spilled in this battleground.
Swinging between the fear and the sky
having the apnea capturing my sorrow.
Copyright © Miltos Gitas | Year Posted 2016
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
to post a comment