the killing brine
May 29, 2006
The rising sun falls from the sky in flames
while bodies float atop the killing brine.
We search for light moving into frame,
no grave as lonely as this chilling brine.
They fly unseen with dead abandon,
fast and low atop the churning brine.
Then rise to dive, they attack at random.
We jump into the burning brine.
How many prayers were said this day?
How many fell silent to the brine?
Why must we die such pointless ways
in this vast and lonely killing brine?
qazse 