An iron fist is dealt the middle east,
Her children are torn by the beast,
While nobles sit and feast;

Disaster has hit her really hard,
The outcome is very sad,
Nobles continue to deal the card;

The game is hard to understand,
You can't tell where her children stands,
If they are deserving of a tough hand;

Some say it is karma,
And once they slaughtered others,
But do they deserve this dharma;

Ashes and smoke of burning flesh fills the air,
Whatever their fault may be - this isnt fair,
Oh how she wishes the world will truely care;

Brace yourselves oh children of the east,
Within your walls are also ravenous beasts,
Who by your anguish have made accounts from which to feast;

So let me show you where you ought to begin,
Your politicians are the beasts within,
Undo with them and you'll begin to win;

Do not be decieved by their sad countenance on tv,
They do all that so that you wouldn't see,
Because when you see then you will be set free.

I might not be completely wrong or right,
But no one goes into anothers house and win a fight,
They must be let in before they can smite.

And external powers fueling this fight,
Remove your hands and do what's right
Aid the east into the peaceful light.

Dry and crackling fire within
Ready to start a blaze
Hungry to devour the world
To cause a smoking haze

A plume of black on the horizon
As the sun does set
The fire all-the-more visible
When with darkness it is met

Darkness rests not further
The fire indeed grows brighter
Yet also pale moonlight grows paler
Both strong yet not enough to conquer

In blackness dark still remains
Amidst the flames and moonlight, it retains
The sun might shine to bid away the darkness' feigns
Twilight may be gone but the emptiness remains

At what point
did it start?
they ask.

An endless rhetoric,
slyly demanding
unremembered
histories

I don't know.
a simple answer

feelings  do not
come into your
heart with
warning

they bang on
your rib cage,
a dull echo
shuddering through
your body

I am not
a moment
captured  in
a photograph

stained sepia,
a sliced negative

It did not
start with
the click
of a clock

stopping the
hour hand
at twelve

it consumed me,
slowly. The sea
does not devour
the sand with a
single wave

it is the
onslaught of
sadness creeping
into your blood

a parasite,
a lowering of
cells

it is
criminal,
and I am it's
victim

as you try
to execute
my misery
with pills

(electric shocks)

crisp white sheets,
pulled so tight
they feel like bandages.

Wrapping around my limbs
until I am paralysed
with emptiness

one bed, one desk,
one chair

a tick sheet of
sorrow that I am
now pinned
to

like a butterfly,
living for only
one day

but pressed and
preserved

indefinitely