In the dark unknown we walk,
The beckoning of hope at the end
Is like a blue flower to the bees.
Befogged why our instincts shouted begone,
We meander into the unfriendly unknowable.
The gust of wind, a welcome
Of the unexpected, gropes us cold.
A faithful messenger it has become,
Carries screams from the bosoms of the uncertain,
Blended with the smell of roasted meat and grains.
A monotony of “Help me!” forms the bloody screams
And we involuntarily freeze to a halt.
Our hearts escape to our posterior extremities
To avoid losing their throbs prematurely.
Goose bumps form permanent boundaries as smallpox
And screams seep silently through our tight commissures,
Dying this way was never an option.
My vote I gave willingly, my life is taken forcefully,
I choose not what I am and you refused not what you are.
Why should his victory be my death penalty?
The owners of the screams are at hand,
We clench at our crude weapons ready to charge,
Then a child appears. Phew....!
This relief causes more problems,
After the exaggerated tensions some women pass out.
Until the mediation are over,
This is our new form of fighting for survival.
© Copyright 2016 barasakhisa. All rights reserved.
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