These Walls
Inside of the walls,
There were countless possibilities
That my chances would be etched
Within the cracks of these concrete blocks.
Crows hang over, gliding by,
Vultures and hawks fight for the leftover
Carcass that sits and smells of death.
The smell of our own fate;
Let there be light at our own gate,
And may we be met without
Receiving late.
My own torch baron, my own
Brother or sister of war
And terror. Let it be not,
That we are the weak.
Like
Share
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.