On Their Own

A mission to sit on windowsills,
drawing back curtains, wondering what went wrong.
Sometimes, they would cry for the graves littered at their feet.
But it was often in vain,
and quickly dissolved into plans.
Strategies for the toils,
the work,
the exhaustion.
Mere children, they were, with the hearts of
those who had seen corpses
of who they loved,
splattered with the wounds they inflicted.
Pretty girls,
with pretty dresses,
hiding ugly pasts,
they tried to scream,
but it was lost in the space
they created with their own flawed memories.
They liked it that way.
Conflicted boys,
putting on a brave face,
for the funerals
no one
else attended.
Mere children,
they were not ready for
the hardships
of having everything slip through their fingers.
They were not ready for witnessing
the harsh reality of the world.
They were not ready for their own destruction of the delicate red thread
that held it together.
They were not ready.
No one cared.

Author's Note

Haven't written a poem in months.
I didn't really miss it. But still, it feels like I've at least done something to let out some soul before the day is over.
I have an idea on what the poem is about. Do you?

Reviews

[roarke]

Glad to see you back from nanomojo hell... lol.

Just between you and me, this is the best poem I've seen posted this morning. but... like... don't let it go to your wee head.... (I'm not a poet and can't rhyme orange, so take my impressions for what their worth.)

btw. nice, very nice.