RAGE (for a free Libya)

His heart is a dead core.
Black, cold and full of flies.
Their maggots have eaten his soul.
His blood is a dark thread.
A twisted, vile wire,
Mapping his being
Like a malevolent vine.
Still beating in this acid cage,
The tiny atom blinks
And here resides
The future you can build.
From bones which stink,
Still sodden from the spill.
There is something here to nurture.
A new dawn growing out of rage.
Hearts reddened and in flood.
Rebirth budding into good.
Freedom insists to come of age.                © Will Barton 2011

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