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Andreas Simic Jun 2022
I oft wonder about thee
the flame that once shone bright
into mine life

Have thou been extinguished
by all the lies
spread by deviance for all to behold

Or have thy flourished
using deceit and manipulation
to fuel forward

Nary a thought
as to the carnage you leave behind
in the hearts of others

This I ponder

Andreas Simic©
Ayesha Jul 2021
I stole a sheet from the test papers
For my hands are filled
Already with ink
from exhausted pens
Well, that is all I planned to say
But I must keep on this ramble
Only these words feel real
Only they keep me warm

Sun dies gently behind the clouds
And gossips scatter around
Girls in blacks
And yellows and reds
Scarves dyed in greens, browns
And blues
Intricate galaxies stitched
On their swaying tunics

I do not dissolve here
In these beautiful tides
and their slow dance
Not with a carnage stuck in my chest
Not with the bleached dawns
Rising and rising restless
And we’re all fighting, yes, we all are
Why then
Is this field so lonely?
Not a mourning, not a deafening blast
Is heard

A barricade of silence
I wrap around us
Us, I,
The boy
who constantly yells for freedom
And the girl
Who will let him not

Then again, us
I, the two children inside
One weaves a step out of his fingers
Other hops on
Peeps out of my eyes—
“Do they want me yet?”
“You, then?”
What then is wanted,
They wonder
But do not say—

It is an ungrateful inquiry
All luxuries they have known in this house
Crowns and swords, dresses, blooms
None kept from either
Why must
Then they want out?

Then the guys pass by
The scarce colours
that fill up their clothes
And hoarse laughs erupting
Their uncovered heads
And princely gaits

I belong there,
No more than here.
Not in flowers, not in bees
Do I blend
Not in capes, nor veils

No weapon I wish to hold,
Not an anklet studded with gold

In the grass, I cross my legs
Far from beetles
Far from wasps—
I watch red ants crawl up my shoes
Crush them, I do,
Casually beneath my fingers
One, then, three and more
Until dusk is silenced
by the night

Not a beetle approaches
I wear the shimmering skin of a wasp
Not a wasp calls
I am skin only

The black sky comes
And takes us far.
The girl climbs up my spine
And pulls the boy along
They zip me open
And crawl out
Sit next to me, and they sing a song

I am the castle
Who could not help them live
I am the rusty duel
They were born to fight
Yet love me still, they do

And the crescent—
It is a woman nor a man
A crescent it is,
a crescent, stays

And when darkness comes
And eats the world
We join our hands
And build a softer one
But what good—

It is too dark to write now.
The lights flicker like stars
with smoke sickened
They pound in my head, pound and pound.
I hope the ramble
Was worth the theft
Diljeev Apr 2021
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.
Ylzm Apr 2019
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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