Far Away They Die In Our Sleep

Another dawn has won over a defeated night. The wounded and dead, as always are hidden between time zones, a brutality too far away, and not enough to tremble grills in backyards or rock local beer barns. From the East perhaps a bird or two will arrive bearing seeds of survival, but for now the pinpointed and targeted tread no trace, thread no words. The collateral and forever damaged dream for us, the smashed-down wave hopeless arms like far semaphore signals they come to us now as muted morning guests; fortunately, we have many soft and spare pillows and they cannot disturb our rest.