The murmur began at the slow invasion of night
into a restless household, waiting for the sun to pull
the cloak of darkness over their depressions. The sky
pulled in tight and covered the suburbs with yellowing
memories of bygone days when streetlights lived
in small pale pools of circles under a twilight
of energy. Bellies full and bursting with new harvest wine
cuts of roasted pork and dark baked potatoes
there was no need to switch on the misery of political
misbehaviour. Contentment was written on cherub faces
and swollen bellies even as the noises from the street
amplified and grew bigger with every extra child added.

Then it happened. This disgraceful division between beliefs
that tore the street into pock marked holes of pain
Brother fought  brother and all of the Holy Books
were burned and everyone got out their pointing fingers
and looked across the street to lay waste to blame.

The first sms reached out beyond the barricades
and poles and farm implements were sharpened
for the hunting season. Anger drove people into strange
exorcisms and each side ran to the other to ferret out those
little children, huddling in frightened corners and mothers
breaking blood to lose the unborn brutality that followed.

Scattered amongst the ruins lay the dreams of happiness
and plentiful. The walls of economy imploded and the suited
smiling faces of politicians smeared across the highways were torn
down and used as fuel for bonfires. Everyone who dared died
within a week as the rubber bullets, water canons and plastic
armour plates ran out of production. Funeral pyres lit up the nightsky
and the wailing and weeping mingled with the river of rushing
humanity. The mountain paths were strewn with bones
and even the animals hesitated to eat the hungry.

The division of beliefs tore everyone into shreds of arguments.
Those in the front seat blamed the back benchers but those
in the left over seats were out on the street fomenting hate.
The world watched as the numbers climbed and all of the giant
pyramids and majestic pharaohs and ornaments could not stop
the need for power.

The lone child picking paper on an impoverished street
cried quietly and turned every stone looking for
mama.
Author Notes

A few years ago this happened, exactly as depicted. The land had plenty. Power was cornered at the top. Money and mystery flowed. Then one brave man sent a text message asking for change. The population exploded into belief/disbelief and chaos.

Even today the street battles rage and the pyres burn. The end is not in sight.
The Revolution will continue on.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.