Wounded And Alive

In search of wholeness, 
the words sit around me 
cutting the edge of the corn ear. 

A new shibboleth, will 
announce the arrival of 
a bloody tribe. 

In this life cycle, I 
will meet you, to kidnap 
a Pir for remaining silent. 

Who was on the road 
to give a sane advice 
to the waning roses? 

It was not poemtime. 
The kids were bleeding 
from the barbs of unknown.