An Orange Firestorm

When the horizon steams up a full moon
and the morning condenses on your window,
pain whispers in the limb stumps of a hollow
cast as witnesses upon stormy seas, rowing.

Into the tears a mother sheds for her last lost
son stampede gallant white horses, crossly
demanding obeisant gestures with arms
outstretched, and faces plastered to the floor.

Mushrooms cloud TV news' screens,
surrepticiously gleaming in the eyes
of nondescript, nefariously motivated
spokesmodels who cling to lead plated

bomb shelters while stagnant air
gathers into dust clumps, beyond
the radio, active vitrolic antipathy
swarming over apathy's soft underbelly.

The sky flames into an orange firestorm
where the pre-dawn, purple firmament
once caressed stars' soft glimmer
while children smiled at tomorrow.