A Deathly Game

A Deathly Game 

By: Sarah W.


Dear Sir flying in the fancy plane

over the summer fields of my home,


When you threw the

Bombs like rain from the sky

Did you mean to hit my sister,

the little girl with the ponytail?


Was it your intention to create

A field of broken grass

Of broken dreams

And broken lives?


Bombs hidden under yellow wrapping in the fields

More vibrant than anything the children have seen

Did you mean to do this so that I would pick it up?

Like toys they look, did you know?


Oblivious hands toss them back and forth

It’s a game

playing with death

in the summer fields.