The whispers begin.
First the clownish
cloud-shaped
crowds, looking down
with fire reddened eyes.
Standing guard
over the shopping centre floor.
Their territory.
Across the road, down a street or two.
The enemy.
A different patch of land,
a different peer chemistry.
Before this turf war
joy was all they would want,
then that joy became corrupt.
now it's not what they wished for,
its just about putting up a front.
Smiles died. Lost somewhere
on a carousel ride.
Where they sat
laughing and joking,
so many yesterday’s ago.
Friends before, now enemies.
So similar.
Their differences just mere pathways.
Vicious words fill the air,
like angry animals tearing
their prey to shreds.
Then a moment of tragedy.
The streets breath a lungful.
The buildings cry again,
too many babies die.
Too many young
walking around with
hourglass eyes,
sand tricking down
as they glance aside
at the shiny bladed knives.
Grieving flowerbeds
hide their bright light bulb
heads away,
Scared of being pruned.
Too many sharp tools
Being used today.
Memories tied tight
upside down
across their chests,
as time clicks slowly by,
it sighs, in a creaking tick.
Distressed. Prison uniform dress.
Cell walls etched.
Blood sticks to your clothes
and it makes hurt echo,
eternally
through the slippery
blood-stained streets.
where people come
to weep and bellow.
Thanks for reading
No comments:
Post a Comment