Poetry offerings from Smithy
 

NOT JUST A DREAM


had a dream,
tearing flesh from
my face,
expecting
streams of blood and pain,
but nothing.
gaping wounds of darkness,
yet not to wake.
A mother holds out her dying child
and says
'you can fill the holes with this'.
she points,
to scenes of misery and war,
and says that
'these are real'.
her clothes are soaked with blood,
so much blood,
but my hands
are so shamefully clean,
and all I can think is
that it's too damn easy
to just wake up.

Broken Fear and A Cup of Coffee

The Color of Sadness    There She Goes Again

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