BOMBS

Bombs cavorting on streets,

                                    Bombs with hands and feet,           

Slightly swaying,

From original direction,

And quickly gathering speed.

We wait for the explosion,

While negotiating implosion,

And get rags ready,

Heavy with spray,

To clean the Macabre.

Sullen and waiting,

For the next heavy meeting,

Tired but driven,

By unexpected impulse,

That drives them away.

Not what we were expecting,

But still awkwardly suspecting,

Some sudden change of mind,

Turn of the tide,

Stopping by than running away.

We're all bombs,

Blowing up inside,

Inside spreads outward,

And real destruction occurs,

Despite comforting words.

Smoke placates and soothes the mind,

Smoke from cathedrals,

And bombs dropping on London,

Make fire roaring through here,

It's a red, robust, embodiment of all we fear.