Bombs

Bombs falling, dropping—
One by one—
On what we built
What was once
Beautiful, happy, good.
Now, instead.
Is the barren, blazen
Field of death.

A child lays isolated,
Torn and beaten
Dragging a discolored doll in hand,
In hopes to find what
Once was.

But, after the bombs—
There can be no joy.

Only desolation.