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Boston
May 22, 2013
Of metal beads strewn across the floor,
of corpses and blood,
shattered windows reflecting,
the marauder’s glare
the siren glaring,
the last manic laugh
of the assaulter,
when, have casters of news,
not told of the newfound horrors,
every day,
every night,
every last waking hour,
the country in turmoil,
should we stray to our rights
when our folk were old
and in the wild
of a brand new world?
or should we adapt, move on,
and shrink the number of corpses
found every day.
© Tyler T., Boylston, MA
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