Tuesday, September 18, 2012

old catalonias


No loss for words,
more words won each minute.
Chaos agents across the land
change the rates of measure,
leave some numbers the same.
Bullets in the walls, hiding in the wells,
battles I don’t remember every time
the park is empty and I hear a sound.
Maybe we never quit seeing soldiers.
They never really quit for better words:
I’ve never been to hell but there are lot of people
who say I should go. OK.
Then every suffering for itself,
and whiskey take the hindmost.

No comments: