Crude Dancing

 ~ Crude Dancing ~

{A War}

Crude, abominable something,

A rare necessity,

Painful rub,

An ominous grunt,

A share of trickling water,

Flowing seamlessly, through the air . . .

A silent stream, that begged for mercy,

Yet no one listened or cared.

The world was dying,

And-

Through the rush,

We left something,

A grunt and a rub,

Whatever it had meant,

Then,

Could not have been stated,

Because in a dark alley,

A man lay dying.

In the musical distance,

Jazz players lighted up their faces,

With a congealed red flame,

That centered only on their eyes . . .

No one saw or cared,

What this man did,

What became of him-

For he lay dying!

He would never seen the trickling rush,

Of the water the flowed,

About his body,

A silent, unseen river-

A blood-bath.

The dancers sang, and jazz-like, they tuned their instruments,

Yet the air within the alley,

Was silent,

Dead,

And cold.

He was a part of all this-

This merciless killing flow,

Of screams for mercy,

Yet no one stopped,

And knew of his plight . . .

The dancers-

They basked, in their bloody light,

Creating this twisted river,

As the life,

Was suddenly extinguished-

And we never,

Saw again,

What he meant to say . . .

Because,

The men continued to create death,

And if he whispered then,

His last words,

People will still dance,

In the blood-bath,

Of war.