Who were you to say we should sweep the floor
so we could eat fallen apples from it.
All we wanted was to get out the door
cabin fever on the mind, so we bit
the stirrup, the first cut on our hands stung
the wind, getting out of a small town life
never knew of lampposts with bodies hung
never knew anything of stubborn strife
in fairy tales where heroines come back
heroes go forward to revenge, not flee
but this is not one. This is the real lack
of words the citizens in a bloody
country can’t come up with to salve or fend
of wounds that fester like mould to the end.
