Charles J. Ingerson


Wind bellows of pain
taking the day and night
blemishes muddied in rain
staying for one last fight.

Often thought the horrible
was only some make-believe
till learning of the terrible
left everyone to grieve.

The blackness of hate
the whiteness of lost hope
storms which won’t abate
endless in their scope.

One red stain seldom seen
enters the bullet’s force
no wound ever too clean
enacting a shattered course.

Death wantonly invites within
those who’ve come to play
never anyone who’ll win
but all the night will stay.