Gord

2014-04-18 12:00 am

A hundred and ten, live.
Sundries of men, dead.
Sun dried in a tent,
Limbs sundered and spent.
A disunion to the dissection.
A preparation for misunderstanding.
A sun song sung, 
So sundrily that the people run,
From open pasture to the sunken,
Then a tsunami wave blocks the son.
From the pasture the bell is wrung.
Sons of god in hell, soaked asunder.