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Donna Bella Aug 2016
I'm so deep in love it's like diving in the Mariana, everlasting.
I'm so high off him, it's like I'm intoxicated with every illegal substance.
I'm in so much trouble because I killed for him and I lied for him.
I'm so in love, and I like it.
I like the way he talks, I love the way he sings, I love his smile and I love every flaw.
But he has no flaws to me, our love diminishes flaws.
Never been intertwined before until his heart met with mines and I felt our souls attaching to one another.
The love grows deeper every day as our heart becomes more and more attached.
Deeper. *
Deeper.
Deeper.
tl b Jul 2016
Sigh. Not nice in Nice.

We live in a lifetime
that fears not dying from
illness or old age, but instead
from terror attacks.

A lifetime governed by fear.
What kind of life is that?

We live in a lifetime
that dying from the inevitable,
that dying from the formidable,
is a path we hope for.

A lifetime forced to fear.
What kind of life is that?

We live in a lifetime
that is continuously reminded of death
that stays shut up
that hobbies in fear
that losses dreams
that dreads.

What kind of life is that?
And seldom do we focus on what it is to live
And maybe it's beginning to look unavoidable?
Even still, sigh, I will continue to fight the fear.
Emilee Ayers Jul 2016
Your shoes were tied
And I realized someone's fingers danced with the laces before you found your body under a sheet.
You have a name
And a family and people who love and care about you and who's lives are now shattered.
Yesterday you lived
And breathed and laughed and made all these memories and plans as though you'd have a day after tomorrow.

But you don't.
Tomorrow didn't come for you.
You're forever stuck in the realms of yesterday
Never more than you were the moment before you breathed your last.

Did you hold it?
That last breath that filled your lungs.
Did you keep it trapped in your lungs, frantically searching your brain for ways to survive them?
Or was it the last of many short comrades, minds racing through faces of those you love and words that will always be left unsaid?

I don't know you.
I don't know your name.
But I know you had one, and that's enough to impress upon me an inkling of what has happened here.
Of life lost.

I grieve for you
And the fingers that tied your shoes and touched the skin of those you love being put six feet under.

I'll never forget you.
I can't.
I saw pictures of some of the sheet-covered bodies on the ground in Nice, France and saw feet and hands and hips poking out here and there. I noticed the hem of blue pants under one and tied shoes on the foot of another. These were people. Not just a story we hear on the news, but a real thing. It really hit me in the heart.
Rina Vana Jul 2016
How will we find an answer to the question
tearing at the threads of our chests?
Ambitions, traditions, building and expecting
soft skin listening
dinner ready,
warm and waiting

for someone who won’t
be coming home
Don’t turn on the television
and don’t pick up the phone
out spills blood from the twirling cord
he’s gone, she’s gone, they’re gone
Hate has again won

and I’m sorry I couldn’t have
been there to help
My ears ring with
the screaming
across the earth
and
my heart feels
the fingers that grip
their loved ones limp faces
with eyes that stare blankly
towards the sky
drowning in tears
and inquiring *why
Migrant refugee
a place of temporary
community is everything for
The Afghan, Syrian, Iranian and Africans of all
from the jungle they came, to The Jungle they go.
A place to pass through hope
to go over to Dover and
beyond. Think so fond
of the other side.
Work, new life, peace
and family they seek.
On a journey to travel, men,
women and kids flee from
an evil chasing their race.
They stare death in its
face the whole way.
To leave it all behind in hope
to find that which is true.
Some French help, some unsure,
others come from afar
to serve and ask
"What can I do?"
to find there is nothing but to see.
Some pray and some say
"I will not stay"
after months of waiting
to leave with no more tricks in
their sleeve, oh Lord when
will they believe in this Jesus
who sets all free.
Calais is a city in France that borders Dover England separated by the English channel. Muslim refugees flee their nation as bombings increase in their neighborhoods from ISIS and other evils. By the time they have traveled through deserts and mountains fighting starvation and exposure to then drift across the Aegean Sea into Athens Greece, those who survive try to make it into the rest of Europe for freedom. Those few hundreds that make it out of Athens find themselves in a place called "The Jungle" in Calais, France. This is basically an old landfill that does not get used anymore, so the generous French government has made use of this space and has made a camp for the refugees in this place. Everyone who is there wants to continue moving to find more work and a better life. Hope and despair are a constant battle in these peoples reality. This refugee camp is called The Jungle because of the diversity of nations and culture represented in this community. What once was an official government camp for 1500 people is now surrounded by 5000 refugees in "tent shacks" and makeshift buildings provided by local ministries because no one plans on staying long term. But after a few years of a growing population, human attributes have made small businesses, shops and cafes with different communities in this vast landscape making every day life palatable for the people living in these  conditions. Every night people are trying to be smuggled across the English Channel on boat in anyway they can find.Hiding in a crate, truck and many others are a passport in their eyes as getting official paperwork in near impossible.
As whisker-twister pauses, tho’ journey lingers on,
Sniveling and sneaking as he darts in shadows long,

And the Gallic peace; tranquility.

No food, nor sleep, no drink and no refuge, found anywhere in France,
Nowhere to run save forests, upon which he’s forced to take a chance,

And the Gallic peace; tranquility.

Scampering in shadows, with the hunter’s distance being closed,
Rodent Ambiorix, -little mouse, is paused and panting in repose,

And the Gallic peace; tranquility.

Frightened little mouse, run, yes run away,
Frightened little mouse you’ve come to rue that day,
For frightened little mouse, -Caesar’s on his way!

And the Gallic peace; tranquility.
Historical poetry.
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