The City Is Burning

The City burns, a dappled bower is stifling with heat, a swathe of crispy green grass is singed and spoilt, a posse of dainty tender flowers is marred and tangled, all now darkened with war's fires, the grounds are blackened with fumes and fear. But none of these to lives compare, the dead lives of the young killed, or the older ones murdered, in sudden bursts and blasts. Some hearts in error have wickedly brought to lads and lasses, ladies and men, the cruel strike of the grim-reaper's blow. They sunk battered and crushed into death, these fledglings of a happy future, and they who were going before them on the road of time. Agog and amok people pell-mell run rabied with a confusing madness, eager to survive bullets fired and bombs dropped. Those who have fled the city make for safety by the peace keepers sides, if the rebels or militias do not outrun. If in frenzied flight they pause to look back, they don't merely see a burning city, but horrors and pains that sting more than flames.