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.