Time of Mourning – An original poem

A frail framework of a reality

Housed atop a freshly burst balloon –

No air blows, no water flows

Through disjointed valleys

Of cracked skulls and broken bones.

There is no better time for mourning.

A thin body wearing a smile

Withers amidst brush and ash.

First cries too quickly fade

Yet the hearth scorches faster.

Her body is lost.

And the morning still rises.

A faceless mass lies unseen.

Earth’s bedrock cradles contours

And sand slides with time,

Gritting beneath fingernails.

Accursed basin of infinity.

Heaven is too full for mourning.

A father draped in a spirit-less figure,

A mother shrouded in faithlessness –

Swollen eye sockets carried, like

Two eight-balls in a single pocket.

Trenches dug for posterity, but

There is no safety when morning comes.

A porcelain face turned solid,

Youth frozen before its murderous shatter.

No stone goes unturned,

Until it’s too heavy to handle.

First and final shots ring out,

And there is no time for mourning.