i see a long line made of lunatic, inebriate saints— chanting orisons with their haloes and white robes— racing to the sea screaming and preaching— exchanging blows for the blood of the ******— illuding one another for the salvation they thirst— saying, i am one to ascend the divine nirvana.
am i now a heathen? for orisons should not pierce the ears— yet i am dead sick thus i pray for and on my own— for the guts to try ending the hellish havoc.
and when i finally screamed sets of vile eyes, fangs and weapons— smiled at me.
this is what happened to my country right now. for this one has a sensitive theme to it, i'll leave it to your own interpretation. written for the first prompt 'Halo' of November Hall of Poetry challenge on LINE app.