Slipped, the Dogs of War Go Howling


We slip from ignorance

into denial, slipping

rosy-colored glass

before our eyes

to stare into the sun

in ardent search for light. 

Tears slip down our cheeks,

we walk on blindly, ignoring

each red flag, surprised

when hell breaks loose

and crowds call, “Havoc!”


“Slip” is the prompt from   at the d’Verse Poets Pub for Quadrille #105



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