The third suicide attack in eight days. I wrote the following (not sure what you can call it). It’s not a poem, although sounds like it.
It's 7am. In most households, alarm clocks haven't sounded yet.
BOOM! Alarm?
No, look out the window, exhaling short fast breaths, the glass window fogging.
A man sits disorientated, dazed. Painted in blood.
His blood? Or is it the person seated alongside him on the bus?
Six courageous soldiers dressed in uniform… no longer
Only guts and flesh remnants.
Death arrived hastily.
Frustration, anger, pain. Tears run down lost faces.
The sound of death, can you hear it? Sounds distant doesn’t it?
Wailing ambulance.
Ear pitching howls of men.
Women screaming in agony.
Its just outside your window. Look to your left…
Men carrying four little lifeless bodies.
Carefree children… no longer
Thirteen wounded. Lost and confused.
Look closer, can you see their frightened faces or is it covered in blood and tears?
A helpless crowd collecting what’s left of a once happy child.
Why are you breathing so hard? Your crying, shocked aren’t you?
Close your eyes as the burning tears scald your face.
Tragic, isn’t it? And you’re a witness.
I am your conscience and have been imprisoned by this calamity. Unshackle me…
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment