A lingering thought.

It grows warmer every day.
My cereal is uneatable as I cry
and look into the grains of tomorrow's meal.

I grind what I may, as I might,
despite what I am, what I know and where I stand.
These are the subtle answers.

I scream!
Echo. Echo. Echo.
Laughter risises and falls,
Flack attack leaves me senseless

No legs are just fine with tomorrow,
but what about my death today.
I hate the man I am.
I miss the man I was.

War rises like an errant wave,
and the sudden piece of history
that is left, terrifies
and the children long for something or
someone
to hold onto.