Slaves

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
its about slaves

Submitted: April 21, 2017

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Submitted: April 21, 2017

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Basking in the moon of doom, gloom soon sung the song of everlasting pain to my nation state, as the blood rains, the people cry the same tears and fear overcomes the foundations we spent endless years building up.

Where is the setting sun?
Where is the setting sun?

The cold night freezes bones and frost bites, snapping at your tongue until you cannot speak or sleep without the nightmarish dreams, resolute to subdue your own hatred and submit to peace.

In other words captivity.

Otherwise the cold would set in and the only thing with warmth in it? The fresh pool of blood you sit in, as you beg for a saviour and swiftly comes the sword to cut you down, to save you from this torture and let you rest in the ground.

The soil fresh with dead remains, rotting heat by searing day, the setting sun has come and gone and now you witness all that's wrong.

The day still brings pain, the wounds sustained aggravate, all forms of creatures penetrate the open deadly wound.

What are you to do?
what are you to do?

This is life for me and you.

We were happy now humbled, boastful now belittled, those of us that were not sinful, killed for fire kindle.

Now the spark.

The spark of vengeance grows on still, hatred only thing I feel, only thing I want's to kill, the hate has got me felling ill. Still I march on strong like soldier and a soulja in the field, marching through the marshes hoping I'm not killed.

I won't die here, full of fear, by only my twenty third year, I will cheer when I break these chains, free-reign maintained by fate, my freedom reign supreme that now my first dream.

But my nightmares still creep in, tell me when I sleeping about the demons seeing the scheming the way I'm heavy breathing and leading my opposition to a make my bones in a state of division broken down as I'm cursing and dissin' wishing the pain would go missing, maybe want to stop living, but I'm beaten and beaten still, and when I wake I go without meals.

My nightmares not as bad as my life, slave born twice, I was in servitude before now a chattel slave with lice.
And other small pests, persisting to bite my flesh, my mind cries for I know this is how I am life.

I make horrid sounds, they take my tongue out, they beat me to the ground, my resting place now.

Then my brothers move on.

They will never speak again.

All hope is lost.

When will we be free men?

 

 

 


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