Gloom Blooms as Bombs Boom
Gloom blooms as more bombs boom;
Even saints are tainted by crimson stains.
Fears tear through cradle-cries,
And withered blood floods the clustered gutters.
A prowl of projectiles surrounds their bounds;
Wounds whine on a round ground.
Pleas fail to heal the skin’s impetigo—
As silence stains the lens.
Then violence dons another garment,
While silence lies dormant;
Cries from festered wounds pry the dry, wry air,
As echoes crawl along.
All goes to soothe egos,
They boast with coats of loathes in floated boats,
In self-conceit concerts,
They celebrate nothing, noting no woe.
Wicked wicks don’t wink weak,
They sow discord and spit splintered discourse,
They supplant hate as baits,
And their words plunge the world to more dangers.
Peace peeks through a bombed hole at round tables,
Yet war speaks through their mouths;
Those who would quell the spell still sow their guile,
While skies scold, souls lie cold.
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