Crimson
Crimson is the color that sounds the alarm
for spirits cast off
into a cycle of what's known and broken.
Peace is the heart of lives that matter
in the straits of
no known tomorrows.
Home is the life needed for all souls
sinking in the entropy
of unequal measure
Reparation is the movement
embedded in
the much needed healing from perfected chaos.
The breadth of this skin
lives by the whim
of what might be holy and true.
The art of this war
is nothing more
than what’s broken in brood.
Sent by the might
of organized sight
it made way for the night to solve.
With the dire and heated
amidst smoke, it’s depleted,
for strength in numbers prolongs.
struck by the drought of hindsight
time in
time out
the unbridled crush of 1000 invisible hands
dropping the veil of ignorance.
When one soul feeds another,
when we come to care
it locks down despair.
About the Creator
A Failed Artist, A Disillusioned Poet, An Underpaid Game Show Host
I took my son and niece to Gori, a small town in Georgia where Joseph Stalin was born. They talked me into visiting the Stalin's Museum, the largest in the post-Soviet space. I had resisted going there because I just can't stand the monster and know enough about him, or so I thought.
By Lana V Lynx5 days ago in FYI
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