Peter Kassig

Reads: 334  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 1

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Peter Kassig.

Submitted: November 24, 2014

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 24, 2014

A A A

A A A


~~Peter Edward Kassig

I wake today.
A day, like any other and none other.
Unique in being, the measure time, no moment ever the same.
Ordinary yet entirely extraordinary.
Diversity blows my mind.
A shot, into the temple, it erupts raw molten lava.
The audacity.
The state of it.
I breathe fire balls of peace winged dragons, beasts take rage to the blood stained ISIS skies.

Another innocent young man dies.

Humanity!

I cry, in empathy, the transparency of my silly tears.
The world gone awry.

Read as the open book I am: drop your walls, deep peace to your raging internal wars.

The news flash comes then moves swiftly on.
The weather, sunny, thirty one degrees.
Just another day, another mundane cup of coffee.

I pause.

I freeze.

To honour Peters Kassig’s memory.

Can the world not see?
The heavy immovable weighted gravity, cementing anything that ever dared, to live free.
The world changed, forever, irreversibly.


No, Stop!
Pause.
Play, or rewind.


His Fathers words begin to crack, arrowed tipped shards, strike the chambers of the heart, penetrating the screen glass.
Through pained windows my soul opens, dilation occurs, processing the delivery of the information, presented factually from the T.V.


The report: "Good morning viewers, today’s headlines, here is the news,
these are the facts,"


said. Detached, coldly.

If you, like me, read between the headlines, this is what is said: death is final life is finite. And, it is brief.

Peter Kassig,
dead.
Beheaded.
Aged twenty six,
left decapitated in the ancient desert.
(For my family: I was home, sleeping safely).
While this beautiful young man, his head rolling, on the war torn foreign land.
Murdered with such brutality.
Lost, in mortality.

 


 Gone.

 

 

I try, clutch to grasp, in shock, in vain, to count, to quantify each singular grain on the planet.

Knowing, never, ever, could it equate to their loss, their pain.


And now, the presenter seamlessly glides to the next piece, the next story: the G20 summit, in all its obscure ‘glory…..’


Hold on!
Stop!
Rewind.

Peter Kassig.
only,
twenty,
six.
A former solider turned aid worker, caring for refugees, dedicated his life to serve, support, care for us, humanity.


Their ‘treasured son’ forever buried, in misguided religion and politics, a war, truly, never to be won.


The nation cries. And we cry.
Internally, individually, universally.
Salt stings the open hole left by his death.


Peter, you are not forgotten.

Crack the lens, remove everyday tinted glasses, be disturbed by the news, forget the weather!

Let it lead you to see the world spectacle their innocent son has come to be!

 

We woke today.
The dialectic: a day like any other and no other.

And I wonder.

As I await.

The inevitability, of the next tragic casualties.


© Copyright 2019 Amy Shunker. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

Comments