When the truck plowed in the crowd
hatred turned into twisted bodies,
contorted faces, and broken limbs,
we stopped to think, take everything in,
but nothing seems to make a bit of sense,
his mind and heart instruments of death,
destroying in its wake eighty-four innocent souls,
many ran, others died on the street,
fractured and mauled bodies
victims of an ideology.
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Author:
rrodriguez (
Offline) - Published: July 26th, 2016 22:24
- Comment from author about the poem: In memory of Nice, France.
- Category: Surrealist
- Views: 29
Offline)
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