APRIL

April,
March
of promises is past.
Spring of rejuvenation
is lost.
There's fire
in the squalid air
and within me.
Flames of fury rise,
stirring in frantic motion
a placid heart.
Asphalt melts
as inflamed feet stomp the streets.
The sky burns
with cries for justice.
Hawk eyes squint menacingly
from behind the blue screens,
preying innocent calves
from their keyboards.
The horizon of hope
bleak with acrid, ominous shadows.