Soot-laced hands, still shaking
offered loaves of bread
with fists closed, unexpectant.
worn shoes crunched the fragments of stained glass
that littered the smithereens with color,
the dust and ash now sanctified with dreams
as the sun beams over the shrapnel;
rainbows of defiance.
The air, still thick with the gray haze of smoke
held every
whispered
word;
songs of home shared between strangers,
kisses pressed into foreheads,
bandages fashioned from shirts
off of each other's backs.
Children drew flowers
on bullet-holed walls,
remembering the daisies that grew here,
before.
It wasn't peace.
It was the passing of water hand to hand
that began filling the cracks
with hope.
Beauty is the love that survives the war;
Quiet.
Tired.
But keeps holding you anyway.
About the Creator
Ellie Hoovs
Breathing life into the lost and broken. Writes to mend what fire couldn't destroy. Poetry stitched from ashes, longing, and stubborn hope.
My Poetry Collection DEMORTALIZING is out now!!!: https://a.co/d/5fqwmEb
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Comments (2)
I also love this line:” Beauty is the love that survives the war;” And the ones about the daisies that once were there. Very beautiful yet sad, but gives you things to think about.
Beautiful. Love this line Beauty is the love that survives the war;