In search of peace
the free hand was inflicting causalities.
The kids were buried like insects in a rubble.
Step by step in speculation
the streets were livid with rustic murals
of splintered blood on walls.
The foxgloves had lobbed rockets
on tall heads. Beleaguered
eyes nailed to fire.
I am watching you my art,
to witness the agony of man.
Burn, burn my cupped hands with snatched words.