Dark Clouds

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: May 11, 2018

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Submitted: May 11, 2018

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Dark Clouds

By: Michael Olisemeka



Think of a price,

A pair of shoes,

A nice dress,

How about a girl?

You would think priceless, but girls sell better than cocaine,

Drugs you can sell once once, but with her you can sell and still keep your supply,

Welcome to the 21st century where bodies are still property,

She has now been bought with a price,

Sold by Villains specializing in manipulation and abduction,

Preying on your insecurity you are never given a dictionary,

Imagine hearing the words “I love you” enough to feel it defines you without you ever knowing it’s true definition,

Herded like cattle buying into their schemes these merchants have now been made merchandise,

This is no random affair,

They are victims of a system, an underground trade where souls are measured, weighed, and put on display

“SOLD!” to the highest bidder to do their lowest bidding,

The difference is they never saw a plantation,

Most don’t work in a field, but their occupation was one thing,

To be prey,

Pandering to the vile taste of depraved beasts, for I could not reasonably classify these creatures as men,

No. Men pursue a woman’s affection,

They engage the conscience to connect beyond the physical,

No. These are mere savages, sadists, monsters cloaked with human flesh that would not dare win the heart,

They are the nefarious, the possessed, reprobates, barbarians, who after they have finished breaking you, you live in ways worse than a dog because even a dog can be taken for a walk twice a day.

This is how you train up a child,

Chained, tamed, until they are so frightened into contradiction,

Some days too scared to stay but others too scared to escape,

Bludgeoned famished and sunken face, brainwashed, and hypnotized into sunken places,

They are but ghosts: vague shadowy outlines of the living,

Broken with no recollection of who they once were,

This is no prison…

Prison would be a relief,

These are not facilities for correction,

These are chambers of death…

No matter where you are taken on this planet and no matter the time of year,

Every e day and night you feel the chill of winter,

Blood turning colder, starved from fear and helplessness eating scraps from the master’s table,

Wrestling with your very nature: conflicted whether you are even human,

Tagged, branded, and scarred buried in cages we can’t hear the whispers,

The spasms of breath, the footsteps…

“He’s coming”

Their voices coated with tears to muffle the screams,

These beings are ravaged in secret,

If our ears were to the doors, it would be the resemblance of sheep bleating with no shepherd,

The bleeding are the slain, a sacrifice to their oppressor,

Their beds are the crosses they bear,

Their vinegar? The stench of spirits and smoke with devil’s perfume of blood, bile, and acidic fumes of abused bodies in unwashed sheets as they cry, “My God! My God! Why have you forsaken me?

Why has my body, my sexuality been sent for this slaughter.”

Which is worse?  Eyes open or closed?

If closed, demons would replay scenes of terror that she’s be haunted by their faces,

But if open, she’d know it was never just a dream.

Questioning “Why wasn’t I good enough to be loved?

Why couldn’t I die here? Why didn’t I die in the womb?”

Too ruined to desire to live, too scared to desire for flight

“My God. Someone out there please come for me. Please take me away…

Please.”


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