The bombs usually increase in August,
strapped to people we can't imagine,
folks beyond our reach.
Women, children, young men, rushing toward eternal light.
The anxious move through crowds and feel the concievability of someone longing for rapture.
Some smile and laugh, some look brave, some look scared, some know what's next.
In the lush garden of her mind a perfect angel in female form reaches out to grab the stem of her favorite rose and pull it underneath her nose.
A thorn buries itself in her finger and blood rushes out like a frenzied crowd.