the splintered bombs
have shattered all that is within
their broken parts cut and scratch
but the blood spills not from shadowed flesh,
the scars and scabs vegetate not
on pale skin.
they are hidden, tucked away, eclipsed
by dime-a-dozen, every-day duties.
they have found a home
somewhere secret –
somewhere silent, yet loud
somewhere mute yet vociferous,
they sit, rolled up
in the darkest corners of the mind.
when they see a brother
or hear the family cry –
the outer skin breaks
suffocates the pulse of the lungs,
pollutes the red rivers of the blood,
spreading their poison
through a helpless
the clear sparkle of innocence
like the waters of egypt.
a red haze fidgets