Guns of hope
Blazing guns have a way with the weight
of words, when you're caught in between
green fields of summer and thorns,
Much of the soul follows
the whispering wind,
Winter warns the
wishing well,
Do not,
let
these
petals
melt, in a
black brick bowl of
watery spells, should
there be an ounce of hope
for a forgotten seed, pray
the bones in these arms hold on to
all it needs, so bullets can bleed peace.
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