redstory

 

This isn’t something I could stomach writing about until now.

Yet the genocide(s) is/are making several nations lose theirs.

First it was one. Then two. Three. Now they sit at millions.

Millions being starved, millions becoming living remains, a shell of their previous life before the unlit chasm succumbs them entirely. It ricochets a merry tune of heaven, where the sun isn’t unyielding, the fruits tug the branches in its fullness, and the daffodils mischievously dare them to come play.

I think this is what heaven looks like. Flowers, fruits and a shining star.

I think this is what people in Palestine, Sudan, Congo and many other unspoken of, shrouded, unheard of think so.

They beseech, their knees greet the ground in an intensity which outcries thunderbolts from hell. All they need is to eat.

They don’t want to get eaten.

By the demons which crawl their conscience. Dig their tepid, tainted fingers and relishes the crimson which treads down their arms before they grow murkier. Fortified. Erratic and euphoric.

Big smiles before the canines dip.

They grow caverns and ink their own perimeter.

Nowhere to go, no need to go.

Only stay there, sipping blood, dripping all over.

Some warfare bid well when it’s parried with alone, yet there comes a time when two is better than one. Four is better than two.

It’s time to parry. Even if it’s to save a flower, an island or an empire.

Even if you cut all the flowers, you can’t stop spring from coming.