How can there not be war between the nations, when the battles occuring everyday are ignored? A personal struggle.
They fall from my pen,
Spiralling until they are lashed to a page.
But they make the bars
That restrain reality,
And they weave the veil
That hide the story,
Of the home front.
The bombs fall like raindrops,
Inside my house.
And the noise shakes the walls,
And the smoke pries at the doors.
Its fingers claw at the windows of my haven
Craving to catch me
In its spiders web of blame.
Those who fly the planes,
Are smaller,
But louder,
And somehow more colourful,
And compared I'm just a shadow.
They skid down the runway,
Of the hall,
And slam the hatch shut,
With a cry of "ever more".
The politicians,
Bring down the gavel,
Against the bricks of this house.
And try to stop the rebellion,
By punishing the people,
And locking away the freedom
That is all I have left.
The soldiers open gunfire.
The ripping of bullets tear through
The locks
And the walls I've erected
Of music and art.
Although not aimed at me,
The shrapnel scatters,
And hits
And stings.
And then silence.
And the ministers sing,
And praise the nation,
With hope that the final attack has come.
And those who dropped bombs
Are hailed as heroes.
Showered with colour,
In a prayer that they will not
Take again to the skies.
Yet I'm forgotten,
In the darkness
While the people in the light,
Pretend that outside,
There is no waiting night.
Poetry by Tal¿a
Read 1185 times
Written on 2006-10-04 at 04:01
Tags War Angst Struggle
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Bombs
The tales are told,They fall from my pen,
Spiralling until they are lashed to a page.
But they make the bars
That restrain reality,
And they weave the veil
That hide the story,
Of the home front.
The bombs fall like raindrops,
Inside my house.
And the noise shakes the walls,
And the smoke pries at the doors.
Its fingers claw at the windows of my haven
Craving to catch me
In its spiders web of blame.
Those who fly the planes,
Are smaller,
But louder,
And somehow more colourful,
And compared I'm just a shadow.
They skid down the runway,
Of the hall,
And slam the hatch shut,
With a cry of "ever more".
The politicians,
Bring down the gavel,
Against the bricks of this house.
And try to stop the rebellion,
By punishing the people,
And locking away the freedom
That is all I have left.
The soldiers open gunfire.
The ripping of bullets tear through
The locks
And the walls I've erected
Of music and art.
Although not aimed at me,
The shrapnel scatters,
And hits
And stings.
And then silence.
And the ministers sing,
And praise the nation,
With hope that the final attack has come.
And those who dropped bombs
Are hailed as heroes.
Showered with colour,
In a prayer that they will not
Take again to the skies.
Yet I'm forgotten,
In the darkness
While the people in the light,
Pretend that outside,
There is no waiting night.
Poetry by Tal¿a
Read 1185 times
Written on 2006-10-04 at 04:01
Tags War Angst Struggle
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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