in a room where widows weep
and watchmen contemplate the dark
speaking of nightly atrocities
and uncertain lines of thought,
a painting of a slaughter
in tones of burnt sienna
presides above the din

on a road where wandering tribes
and feral boars display their tusks
in keeping with traditions
stalked by men in armor,
a lilly sheds its blossoms
like flesh from a soldier ripped
in spiraling crimson petals

in an ancient valley long and yellow
where life has ceased to strive
save lizards and insects
tumbleweeds and dust,
martyrs in an obedient queue
repose against an obelisk
to worship naught but nothingness

in a transient room on a broken street
where lost youths bare their veins
longing for forgetfulness
beneath a flickering light,
water from a faucet complains
as a neon cowgirl twirls a rope
in throbbing red and green

in a room where infants scream
and limbless prophets dream
of sidewalks strewn with broken cups
and heated conversations,
images of blackened crosses
water bearers and wood
decay in frames of splintered glass

in a house of stone and grass
upon a jagged scabrous ground
where emptily the children gaze
posing questions in the dark
of abstract sins and stifled tears,
a wind as chilling as a lie
blows through leafless trees outside

in the room where widows weep
and soldiers bare their wounds
speaking of lost relations
and unimaginable horrors,
a shadow cast on a plastered wall
in blood-red tones of starlight ponders
why we're meant to suffer so

in a room where widows weep

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Copyright (c) 2015, Dennis Lee Foster