This is one of my newer poems, though not necessarily recent.
A City Torn Asunder
A crunch beneath my feet, this soil is too black to be rich.
Rich, though, is the air, with a hesitance to call it such.
Rich not with oxygen, but with a blackness to mar the city at my feet.
With a tainted sharpness, the gloomy light glances off the freshly scored stone pillars,
they, in turn, chafe the sky, a stubborn rebuttal against the carnage around them,
all that is left of this place; my home.
The sun's light is dim, though not from Earth rolling over in sleep.
From Earth rolling over in the pain of shattered hills and firestrewn plains.
From the war that wracked this city; my home.
This devastation, pounding in my head, resonant with the blood in my veins,
speaks of such a great loss, that all I had built is now torn asunder.
That all I have ever been lies broken, beneath my feet.
A tattered garment here, there a broken, headless porcelain doll,
these memories, of a child wearing a new dress, carrying a new doll,
are as broken as the promises made to protect from this.
As broken as my heart, as I gaze upon this.
These, deception's daggers, a misleading false-heart,
Have taken a toll on the city entrusted; my home.
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