The Show

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

The Show


The black compact endured, held agony.

The light it comes, but much too harsh for me.

In dreams I thought of comfort, since so long

It had been gone; instead, disruption wrongs.

It comes to me a searing intrusion;

It brands my eyes, blindness and confusion.

In high hopes for freedom, I stumble out,

Into the open, welcoming – no doubt?

My legs, they shake, too weak, my body aches.

I doubt that much more torture it could take….

The needles poked in places I can’t see,

A pain so sharp, I wished death upon me.

Then stuffing stuff in my ears, eyes, and nose

They made me weak but forced me on my toes.

So now, this freedom, I cannot express

How grand. The feeling swells to fill my chest.

All yearning I did was to liberate,

And water – that would help me celebrate!

But now, out here, this open ring of light,

I realize it’s not over. I must fight.

My eyes, they feel uncomfortable, sticky,

I barely blink. Struggle. Vision icky,

I see around me shapes, they move in blurs.

Ears caked with wetness, I hear shouts in slurs.

I try to breathe, my nose it does not work.

I seek escape, but the villains, they lurk.

I'm searching for freedom, my family,

But fierce pain shoots, harms more than vanity.

Again, again, the pain like lightning strikes

Fatal. A roaring crowd around me hypes

For beings, eager evils, who race past

Continue plunging sharp things in me, fast.

One, two, three

I cannot breathe

Four, five, six

Will it not quit?

They wave red at my face. Dazed and confused,

I run this way and that, destined to lose.

I roar, I bleed, I cry out for your help,

But on and on – they do not cease to pelt.

My screams of agony linger in air,

Unheard by gleeful mobs, surely uncared.

I beg for death – I just want it to end.

Why is it me? I do not understand.

Then cheers so loud, they pierce through deadened ears;

In comes one more, who bears a larger spear.

This is it – my fear turns to relief;

Finally, they’ll shed me of this grief!

It lunges deep, comes out my underside

Why do I feel it? Why do I survive?

He pulls the sword back out with great effort –

Surely, the second time will have to work.

Alas, again, I still must feel the harm,

But that’s okay – the third time is the charm.

He plunges firm, thrusts right into my heart,

And now, at last, I’m done playing my part.

The crowd leaves satisfied, appetites full,

For now the world holds one less wicked bull.

Of the psychological and physical torment inflicted,

It’s just an animal – tradition cannot be evicted.

Submitted: August 28, 2018

© Copyright 2021 Zara Diab. All rights reserved.

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Poem / Poetry