A House Breathes Through Its Bones
A house breathes through its bones,
Its summits sit like sentries;
Though rafters decompose-
It never denies entry.
Its ghosts lie in their beds,
Soft earth beneath their memory;
The shutters firmly closed-
The past seen only dimly.
Bombs Before Breakfast
Bombs before breakfast, blasts just at noon-
Hurry and sup, before we all swoon.
A leg flying by, we pretend not to see,
As we're remembering freedom's not free.
Fingers on stairwells, crushed by a wall,
Buildings much shorter that once were so tall.
Children are silenced both early and late-
Not from ?mere ?etiquette-? no; ? cruel hand of fate.