Death
They slowly took him out of the rubble, one hope at a time,
They could hear the boy breathing, but they didn’t hear him cry.
What they didn’t know, or knew but didn’t dare speak,
was that they were watching everything that was so carefully planned
collapse, and I wasn’t smiling at the beauty of the destruction.
It kills me, every time, and it breaks my tired heart,
When young boys hurl themselves at one another, drop bombs,
And I have to embrace them with open arms.
This small little boy, at the crossroads of humans at their best,
And their worst, watches dazedly at the blood in his hand.
He finds it dirty, and he tries to wipe it off,
On his dusty half pant, On his torn shirt.
He sits where they left him, curious at the world outside,
Will he find his dreams lying at the sidewalk, where his mother died?
I have to go now, carry his mother with me,
And as I tear myself away from the kid, I cant help but think,
I am death, and I am haunted by humans.
