Pulsing. Not.

Rainbows bright

flutter in the sparkling sky.

Peels of laughter

dance with the breeze.

Twisting and turning

until a twang cuts through the melodious chords.

Silver and copper splinter the glee as

shrieks morph to silence.

Merlot drapes scuffed tiles

and hole-blasted walls.


Screens flicker assumptions, accusations, assertions

while souls wander bewildered and abused.

An affront, the accost, few can make sense of.

Lips stutter for aide,

for hope, as nations go mad and the earth lays beaten, asunder.


2 Replies to “Pulsing. Not.”

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