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La Guerre
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Cannonfire, Timpanis, Tires
Storm fronts bloom like flowers,
decay slowly as they die.
Clouds are building up like towers
reaching far into the sky.
I am small and coward and I burrow as to hide.
If they can't see me, they can't find me
they can try but i'm too tricky.
Boom like cannon fire, timpanis, tires;
they're screeching but won't stop in time.
Fading from white to cobalt and sapphires,
close my eyes.
Void of color and I shudder
like every camera shutter.
Cut them shorter, here's no order,
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rhyme, or reason.
It's disorganized, or is it?
No real limit to the damage it brings with it,
or the offspring it delivers.
Ages quickly, rushing rivers.
And I can write, ponder, conspire
how to try and stoke their fire
but oh why would I desire such a thing?
When you're desperate just to live another day.
As I carefully consider my meaning.
Never been close to the best at explaining.
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