Dysfunctional leftovers fly
like thrown dish rags over what
I and the spheres that surround me
drive nails and bad intensions into,
the sour soup of the world
as we come to know it
belches bombs and missiles
into shantytowns of misery.

Poetry by Bob
Read 797 times
Written on 2009-01-13 at 21:38

Tags War  Bombs  Missiles 

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