engine whine, in a dive
pray to god to be alive
when the bombs missed their mark
hit some pristine city park
turf and rubble, an ugly mess
wild-eyed people in distress
and trembling lips do confess
a fugue state born of savage stress
as dreams of a peaceful past glide by
This entry was posted in poem, Poetry and tagged poem, poetry by B Gourley. Bookmark the permalink.
