Image Source: Flickr (cc)
the brush of a hand
slays in
whispers what
the fire cannot take
grows to an inferno
keeping pace with
heartbeats on the floor,
we are less than fully automatic,
or a bump stock, yet we feel
the trigger.
© Ben Ditmars 2017
~
i smell of the moon –
one last time to kill the pain
and taste rock candy.
~
no, i won’t back down
among the wildflowers
we belong to them.
~
music and chaos
free fall into nothing, the
sounds of nineteen guns.
~
she was an american girl…
a nurse, a teacher, a veteran.
~
© Ben Ditmars 2017
Photograph Courtesy of Helle Gade
