The History Book
cities built
on dried bones scattered,
faceless dedications
on lie frosted grounds.
mechanical profit,
metal on metal wailing...
smokestacks belch,
and churches shudder
freedom sleeps,
where lost spirits walk.
stained glass windows,
hide the glare of truth.
soldiers march through
the bleached pages of
the history book!
the dried bones scattered,
murmur in the night!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!
