Pleasantries Dire

Jan 6, 09

Still silver waters upon the edge of dying view,
A Lady walking, thunder following her wake,
Casually, created are ripples then to waves,
Down to our bled out feet; where the children lay.

Her story, is our story, and somewhere is truth,
Peace is no longer, simply, the absence of war,
O' nigh, the honor of our forefathers anymore,
Emerald eyes layered in the bridge of ill sore,

Slipped, we are, upon the blood we shared,
Blinded by short capacity minds which falter,
Stumbled in ruins praying at empty alters,
She runs from wolves called restlessly to her,

She is our babies smiles and kids' intrigue,
Calming still waters lapping at our frozen feet,
Gone only 'cause we can't stand the utter heat
Of natural desert sands and our own defeat.