my windows are broken
the wind is too cold
and the covers are blown open
no longer secure, I hide
bullets fly through the room
picture frames shattering
smashed clocks fall beside me
alone under the bed
the only companion, my quickening breath
grenades tossed through
blossoming colors of death
the bookcase falls to the side
small army figurines slide off the shelf
books burned alive
magazines on the walls ripped apart
closed door knocked open
saw death through my eyes
and now my windows are broken.
-Jeffrey Yang
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