This one is a rather old, graphic poem, and I'd like to say I've got better. It's been heavily edited, to be fair.
Where once children played, toys litter those sites.
Where life brimmed, gravel became the resident.
And now all anyone would know here, is death.
Post Iskra
Thick shards of glass scattered on the floor,
The tarmac is torn, surrounded by craters that
The tarmac is torn, surrounded by craters that
uprooted the playgrounds, trees pinning lives down,
their eyes bullet holes hidden amongst the grass
Blood plastered everywhere, bodies
tied up in shackles that will never be undone.
The houses are now concrete corpses,
monuments to the lives that were once here.
monuments to the lives that were once here.
Yet now all there is is a carpet of red,
coating the shrapnel, choking all.
coating the shrapnel, choking all.
The air outside pollutes this graveyard. It used
to protect them until brutality came in.
Where once children played, toys litter those sites.
Where life brimmed, gravel became the resident.
And now all anyone would know here, is death.
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