Poem By Anthony Dawson
I stood amid destruction;
water trickled through corridors and pores emulating tears.
The sky graspers were murdered,
leaving a gap and the roofs once only imagined.
Yellow steel arm,
carrying a man,
carrying a blade;
speed of light rotation,
screams and flowing sap,
silently telling me in psychic verse;
bewildered astonishment at the rooftop accusations.
Now only broken backs,
no shadow climbers to scare the young through the window
on windy nights,
just broken backs,
once grand, forever innocent.
The new horizon offers only a void,
not the land or enchantment imagined.
The bones were tossed on muddy ground,
the same earth that granted conception.
It had rained throughout their demise;
our car almost bogged on their burial ground;
the magnetism of their souls creating a difficult escape?
this was their last shout,
we swallowed guilt.
It’ll never be the same again when the wind blows;
I have final realization,
there’ll be no more graceful swaying,
only howling created by the gap.
The wounded atmosphere reveals the tin blood;
the ugly monuments to existence.