Saturday, 19 September 2015


Wasted lands
white chalked grounds
nothing exists
only emptiness

Survivors of the past
sounds that would pound and blast
words that want to be said
no one gets it
no gets paid

Battered tortured and bruised
hurt so deep
pain trapped inside
pushed in time
in waist steep

Dry throat
thirsty mouth
falling to the ground
dirt driven
moved over us like the kill

Hands that form
like a map of young men before
water falls to reach the lines
that meet each others existence

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