Winter Solstice, guilt
Being born on this cold night
alone sob of guilt, worse
is the war-torn days.
Roars of metallic dragons
dance in the sea of fire,
trampling on the ashes,
above the shabby shelter,
hungry new born whimpers
as the buzz of bumble bee,
or howl like an abandoned coyote pup?
How did she do it? How did they manage
to hide from the reds?
Miracle, to have survived, with five kids,
yet to have infection in his mind,
occasional alcohol wouldn’t wash the wound.
Every solstice night, I fall deep, lost word,
amide the thoughts of the days of horror,
ache to comfort you.
Only if you were here.
©Byung A. Fallgren