The Crying Guitar

Tears from a string

Another morning preaching the word ‘disaster’

Fragments of recurring wrongs

Southern dilemma

Hands held high

Buckets filled to the brim

Colors mismatched with red and gun powder

Feet of soldiers, prints of herdsmen

The fuss going all night

Bringing the finale to the break of dawn

Last time I write these words, I pray

 

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s