Death
I see the monster wake up with rage
and we feed
our enemies to it.
Bullets and bombs and guns
answer its call
and even some of us fall under its spell.
The monster blows fire
and havoc and shock everywhere
and some wounded beg for it to come.
The innocent suffer the most
and hope for it to pass by
and I hear woman and babies cry.
I do not die,
but that monster kills something
deep in me
and I will never be free
from the impact
that the monster’s tracts leave.
poem by Gert Strydom
Added by Poetry Lover
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