down but not out
sirens atop wooden poles
wail high and low throughout the city
slight breezes unable to move
tattered flags and worn out windsocks
beneath the dome dark and bloated
clouds float slowly and unnoticed
moving plainly like zeppelins hunting for
landmines on easter sunday
below ground microcosms evolve
instinctively and haphazardly
struggling to survive differently
afraid to breach the surface
lest there be light
like an unattended candle
nothing is capable of turning off
the sirens
and eventually
they will burn out all on their own
september two thousand sixteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 
Very nice.
thank you very much
John, you continue to impress and amaze me with your poetry which appears to flow ceaselessly. Makes me want to get inside that head of yours to figure out where it’s all coming from…now there is a subject for a future poem!
thanks so much Bev I’m elated you like this piece…feel free to dive inside though not sure what you’ll exactly find. 😀
Haunting.
Thank you, Brenda.
This gives me shivers in the war of the world’s sense… almost like that red weed and the cries of the martians.
Thank you for commenting on this one, Björn…I see something similar as well,