Buried Fears

First draft

I sat in the wide hall,
Back against the wall,
My knees in my arms,
Waiting for the alarms
To stop their ringing.

No bombs ever came.
Still, I’m not the same.
Dreams in later years
Mirrored buried fears.
The planes were coming.

I thought we were safe
From enemy strafe.
And I never knew
How their hatred grew.
From my uncaring?

For I was happy,
Believing that we
Deserved what we had.
Others’ needs were sad,
But not our doing.

We worked for our life.
With the world in strife
Their lives were brittle.
We gave a little.
Still they were hurting.

Did I give enough?
Did I care how tough
Their lives were, through no
Fault of their own.
And then the planes came.


-- Dreams of war have often followed the sound of a plane or planes overhead, ever since being in air raid drills in grade school.

I hope I can make this better. It's been about ten years since I've written any poetry or fiction.