Monday, February 25, 2013

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,
Through the rush,
We left something,
A grunt and a rub,
Whatever it had meant,
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,
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 . . .

The men continued to create death,
And if he whispered then,
His last words,
People will still dance,
In the blood-bath,
Of war.

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