a quiet little war

 


the white knight's
horse has suffered
a broken leg

there is tarnish on
the silver lining
of the clouds

that light at the end
of the tunnel?

forget it,
man

that light extinguished
itself generations
ago

dead on your
feet

feet of clay

defeated

there is the smell
of murder in the
air

blood in our
coffee

bullets in the words
of our
leaders

feeding poverty,
but not the
poor

Paris has closed it's
doors to love on the
Champs-'Elys'ees

and in the
distance

the battle drums grow
like wild flowers on
the parrie

there will be no new
world born out of
the ashes of this
now

mother's

father's

weep for your
children