I tried to read between the lines.
I snorted them. Still half a bottle of red.
The cocaine like the logs - lost to the burner.
I have an impulse to run aimlessly.
But now I must be the earner.
Their forefathers cry to the moon.
Bury them at sea.
I'll fight them for my daughter. Defeat them with my sons.
What more must we see.
They need us we don't want them.
As it bubbles in the channel.
The lion must raw once again.
My wife cry's. Christ, next to her as one.
In sacrifice we heal. We must remain.
We cant be gone.
Smith Shine Poetry 