It was after we placed the flowers
upon the somber wooden frame,
when the fatal deed was done
and we’d slept in our rose-colored
beds prone on the complacent floor,
that we stood for something howling,
something writhing in our minds,
across our lawns
as our children’s feet scuttled past
the IED’s of cruelty.
Dodging the flowers in bloom
and painted of life,
we waved our wary-worn hands,
weeping to lift such pain
of wounds that kept crashing,
continued pummeling our shrugs,
our ‘that’s life’,
stumbling away from detonation.
Muzzled worry and trouble,
wedged risk in our voice,
thus… we vanished.
Too late, we’ve found our voice
and stand tall and bold
to say, ‘We’ll miss you’.
© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
upon the somber wooden frame,
when the fatal deed was done
and we’d slept in our rose-colored
beds prone on the complacent floor,
that we stood for something howling,
something writhing in our minds,
across our lawns
as our children’s feet scuttled past
the IED’s of cruelty.
Dodging the flowers in bloom
and painted of life,
we waved our wary-worn hands,
weeping to lift such pain
of wounds that kept crashing,
continued pummeling our shrugs,
our ‘that’s life’,
stumbling away from detonation.
Muzzled worry and trouble,
wedged risk in our voice,
thus… we vanished.
Too late, we’ve found our voice
and stand tall and bold
to say, ‘We’ll miss you’.
© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
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