This poem is about bombarding on the Easter of 1993 where I almost got killed. Please let me know what you think about my poem. Thank you!
Easter Eggs
Each small, each influential,
each different, but the same.
The way they come down,
producing that crumble sound.
They came from all over,
and they were grey,
their acute tips
demanding to be hit.
There I was in the pot,
dashed with a red dye.
Death was so generous,
I can’t forgive her for that.
Gamin