the sky is bleeding,
            the clouds are crimson,
raindrops fall like stain glass
towards the lull of the
                              shattered sea,
for peace has lost the melody
in her name—

ashy lips part,
bony hands
                 fold to pray—
a photograph of forgotten colors and
                          forgotten people
vanishes into vermillion flame.

the wind erupts with the plummeting
of planes, the plummeting of death
                towards pavement where
                children once played hopscotch
                in the silk arms of summertime.

voices are hungry, here;
they crave the lightness of yesterday,
the content in tomorrow—
               they lick memories of melted
               popsicles and ice cream off
               their fingers,
tasting only dust and grime.

and in the horizon where trees
once stretched to reach
        the stars,
a burning sun kisses the earth,
reminding the people that
not everything is violent—

(but beyond the beauty of the
sunset, beyond the selfish warping
in the human’s eyes, the bleeding
sky weeps for a time when the air
was still
             and silent)