Poetry

I was not afraid of the clock, ticking,
dividing your attention. A guarded
withdrawl of the statement, had
brought a comic relief to the distraught
vicitims.
 
Caving on guns, the
mustard cloud could wipe out
the entire generation.
 
The tender bodies
wrapped up in white cloaks,
ready to be sent back
to mother's womb: earth.
 
Why a sun wanted to
pass out gingerly?