Bleeding Moors.

Nightmare echoes
poignant
potent,
the surreal march
relentless,
crawling through our mind.

Shards of innocence

Pauline
John
Keith.

Lesley Ann
and
Edward:

exhumed all but one.

42 years, 8 months and 14 days late,
whispers of children,
slaughtered
taunting the unknown,
every orifice concealed
aching for the actuality
of events long dead.

Mind padded
protected from all we know,
sunken treasure buried deeper
than all of God's answers.

Hazy gaze eludes sanity
no matter how we fit the pieces,
lines distort, dance
mock and tease
talking, talking
yet say nothing at all.

So many little voices
velvet sooth,
fermenting to gibberish,
calling our name
tone changing every day.

Howling at the moon
we seek solace,
lines cut up
powdered white,
iced vodka easing us
to a beggars paradise,
fading memories
of what we might have done.

There’s no escape
fearing death,
when witnessed at it’s most horrific:

stunned silence
shattered the stillness,
our boy splayed as bones
ragged doll
dismembered
then
torched.

His innocence
inoculated,
face contorted,
the final scream perpetuated for posterity.

We alone listen

hear his beat upon the brazen breeze,
following us to our alcoholic

drug induced graves.

Michael J. Earnshaw. © 2nd.mar.2007
{sympathy’s symphony™}