Pompei

There were ashes.
Hot.
Burning.
Consuming
the air,
leaving a generation breathless,
covered,
white dead.

Oh the pain!
The cries that must have rent the air,
as the ancient Gods
killed in a fit of petty displeasure.

The screams!
Oh the cries
of life and love betrayed,
that simple promise
of life,
revoked

until there was silence.

But life is not to be mocked.
Love, and beauty, and color
have a persistence malice can only maim
for so long, until
it burns itself out,
and loses the war.

About this poem. 

I believe hate, for all the damage it does, always loses. Call me foolish, but that is what I believe.

The picture was taken in, yes, Pompei.

Tom