art · Philosophy · poetry in motion

The Red Skies

I was born in Russia with a twist for the tale of love,

who would elope every now and then in the zone of war,

It was never a silent place to leave the kids home alone,

and venture on the streets to stalk the police like a ranger,

with a monkey-head and piercing eyes, the skies are redder,

and redder with the writer hardly saying anything he wants,

while the scientist wants freedom from the moribund earth,

The war has its own hero and its own zone which succors power,

in the hands of the privileged, who let the dogs out, he asks?

Champagne on the ice in a dilapidated bar which sans a singer,

There is scaffold looming large for those who see red skies,

and demand a zone of their own they could have fought the war,

with Nazis on doling out life to those who swap fear with fearsome,

Till Charlie switched on the TV for the war to end and damn it never ended.




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