Visions now of boot polish smeared,
a fast brush on leather,
ehoes of shouting, boots running, cascading down our streets,
stomping our bricks,
pounding our sanity, meanwhile
three brave souls in Virginia have perished
history haunting us, taking revenge
but may the gentle spirits – rest in peace.
I don’t really have a helmet, but I can sure make us some signs
for next time.
Poetry © Copyright 2017, ancient skies