The colour of what is left

It is not about the rain pouring down
It is the dust
Seeking a place to rest after the wars,
Forming time’s crust

Should we forget after the blood turns brown,
Or just pretend
It all happened in a nightmare session?
The wounds we tend.

Flies may enjoy nibbling on a carcass
Just for a while
Before the eyes of vultures catch the glimpse
Then in, they file.

The dust settles where our tears form a stream
Our mouths and eyes drop in a muted scream.

Tee2emm