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Diljeev Apr 28
Today's age
in absolute carnage,
I dupe this reality
so devastatingly plagued,
merely to see your visage.
Your lips, your eyes,
prance freely in the scene,
a flood of tears in mine,
yet I lie still in the spillage.
this false reality so obscene,
I run for my life from him,
but he shall always intervene.
From the ashes and dust
We rise again
Bearing the scars of death
As we count our lost
From the bones and graves around
Many have fallen
And the sword is red

We march through the village square
Bearing more corpses
Looking for a place to rest
From the raging sword of the invaders
We seek the face of the gods

Why do we dance on their graves?
Like masquerades in the village square
The kings come from afar
And we take them to the shrine
The invaders helped us built
And none shed a tear…
None raised a wail…
And none grieved
Because it’s not their lost

They said we wail too much
For the lost was small
A tiny drop in the ocean of blood
That has flooded the land

Our contribution was small…yes, small contribution
Or how else could we justify this ceaseless carnage?
So they took more
More women…more children
More boys…more girls
Some pregnant…some suckling
A sacrifice to make up for the rest

We thought our shrine was big enough
To pacify the gods and save their wrath
But we were wrong
Their white regalia is not red enough
The blood is not deep enough for a swim
But why desire blood as one seeks for water in the desert
Oh sword! When will you rest?

The king is coming
Maybe he will see the mountains of graves
And the waiting dead—candidates for mass burial
Maybe he will say it is enough
And the priest can take the blood
And pour on the altar of the gods
So the living can rest
And the land will know peace
And the sword be no more red
May the gods be pacified
This sacrifice is enough
A reaction to the many killings Fulani Herdsmen in Benue State and the nonchalant attitude of the Federal Government to the situation. And the political pilgrimage that followed afterwards to the site of the mass graves of the victims.
noren tirtho Apr 2020
A bloodless carnage
bleeds our roots.
The invisible shadow
prowls around.
A morbidity hammers in;
An obsession aches with despair.
Entangled in enigmas, dreams shudder;
A helplessness mocks the inertia.
An awkward acceptance creeps in,
But the uneasiness can't escape.
Jade Mar 2020
Archaic superstitions
have convinced the masses
that the girl who lives on the
13th floor is bad luck.

Her tears seep
from the hardwood
to the floors below,
electrocuting the dining room chandeliers
and burning out the sconces.

There just aren't
enough pots and pans
to contain her storm.

Furious,
the people downstairs
seem to forget
how there was once a time
when she would let them drink from
the fractured chalices of her palms,
sewing her fingers together
with cobwebs so that not a drop
evaded their thirsty lips.

Their hands do not reciprocate,
while hers do nothing but
give
give
give.

She yearns for the sight
of the number 13,
encircled like a new moon
amongst the rows
of elevator buttons.

Instead, they've
erased
her.

Burned
the letters & books & poems
she'd given them
over the years,
using the ashes
to rouge their egos.

Excavated the pixie dust
from her fingertips

(Do you recall
the death of Tinker Bell--
how her light went dark
after they stopped
believing in fairies--
after they stopped
beliving in her?)


Broke through the
stained glass of her irises,
plundering every
brilliantly-coloured fragment.

Bridging the longitude
of her spine, a laceration
from where the shards
were  punctured and

d
r
a
g
g
e
d.

Basically,
they destroyed
every beautiful part of her
before hiding her in the attic
like a secret


(she has many secrets,
but so do they).


You should see her now:

The way she wears her loneliness so
elegantly.

(Then again,
did she ever really
have any other choice?)

Now,
she'll do anything
she can to keep
the cold from
permeating her lungs.

So she fills the tub
to a scald,
it's gnarled feet
caving beneath the gravity
of her sadness.

Matches smoulder
until the candelabras
are starved of their wax,
wicks frayed like
unravelling
spool of her heartstrings.

Memories both
kind & cruel play tug-o-war
with her capillaries,
some gliding
across her heartstrings
like a violin bow,
birthing symphonic renditions of
inside jokes;
chlorine braided
like ribbons
in the hair of best friends;
walks along sun-strewn culdesacs;
the scent of used bookstores--
something like vanilla and earth.

If only the girl
on the 13th floor
could deteriorate as gracefully
as the pages of worn books.

Each recollection of
betrayal
plucks at heartstrings
with calloused fingers
until they snap.

Ears are severed Julienne style
across the cutting board of her skull,
cuz maybe then she won't hear
the defamations that sit atop
their salivating tongues like pop rocks.

Don't they know their attempts at secrecy are futile?

That she can still
feel the explosive slanders
as they tremble against
the roofs of their unloyal mouths?

The roof of her own
fortress collapses,
shingles thundering down
in percussive eruptions.

Devastated,
she tries to create her own luck,
gathering charms to ward off the
skeletons quaking in the closet.

No rabbit's feet,
just her own paws
cleaved from her ankles,
by way of bread knife,
serrated and adorned in rust
from where her eyes
have  hurricaned over steel.

No clovers,
only dead rose petals,
withered and cliche,
glued in fours
using whatever is salvageable:
stale candle wax
old chewing gum
brine.

No acorns to kiss
because tokens of love
have no place
on the 13th floor

(neither do fairy tales).


No ink.

Instead,
she writes
with her blood,
morbidly inspired
by the carnage.

(because carnage is all she has ever known.)

And despite their
archaic superstitions,
they still read her poetry,
stanzas stacked
like tarantula legs

(and perhaps just as lethal).


Keys are pried from the keyboard.

[ 1 ]   [ 3 ]
              
                 [ E ]  [ R ] [T]
                                                             ­ [ I ]
                                           [ H ]

                                                       [ N ]

Her words attempt to crawl
past blue monitor screens,
caught in a vortex of robotic actions.

                                           [ Delete ]

[ Alt ]      [Ctrl]


                                           [ Delete


                                            

          ­                                 [ Delet




                                          [ Dele




                                          [ Del




                                          [ De




                                          [ D




                                          [





          ­                               |
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Ylzm Apr 2019
Sin
Even as holy books do not make you holy,
keeping the law do not make you moral.
But sin shows itself most sinful
making mass murders and most ****** carnage holy.
And lawlessness hides behind the law
sulking and pouting in the White House.
Lauren Dec 2018
I need to know exactly
What’s the worst thing that could happen
If you prep for everything like its a war,
You should be safe
What is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you
What is the worst thing you’ve ever done
I don’t want to make this morbid
But would you rather see your friends headless body
Or their head on a stick
Sky Aug 2018
meanwhile, at the capital...

streets lined with
mattresses like
piles of flesh

trees above
that shudder
like a final breath

a branch of cherry blossom
like baby pink fingertips
of limp forearms dangling off
edges of crinkled white mattresses,

a flower
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