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Raised fists eclipse the sun's light with more intensity,
The undulating hills, the dips of fright console me.
Oceans of pain spread forth across the barren wasteland,
Cracked skin embraces the falling moisture of a life bland.
The distant echo of love dissected by infected cries,
Peering out at this fallen world of conflicted sighs.
Holding my sister close, an aged hand of a poor youth,
Yet remaining entirely comatose, I comfort her to the truth.
Life is not meant to last, A year is but a second when looking to the past,
Are we caught in a paradoxical existence of God's first draughts?
Or is this the final product, A world of disgust,
A sense of pure disdain plagues through the mountains of dust.
My sister is entirely shocked, a typical reaction,
Her tears float gracefully through the carnage of God's exaction.
My hardened hands lay softly on her rigid bones,
Her position contorted in an emotional emulation of stones.
A Five-year old with the rage of one ten times that,
Is it the strength of love, or sanity she temporarily lacks?
The stinging of my eyes has yet to cease, for I have yet to blink,
Realisation is there, but my body waits for it to sink.
For the glue that fixates us both, the drug that taints her,
Is spraying in a fountain of life in a symbolic red blur.
Our mother lying there, her blood quenching as it spreads,
Another day in our life, yet one that doesn't turn heads.
The soldiers walk away wearily, leaving few to greave,
All she had done is ask them kindly if they would leave.
The tapestry of memories emblazoned across the adjacent walls,
Shadows of raised fists, smiles, fights, appears as they begin to withdraw.
Life washed away from the mournful tears of the future,
A new generation of revenge driven children etched into the nation's pewter.
Turning my head slightly, I saw the other children emerging,
To this site of dimming light they were all converging.
All of our parents dead, by some passing army of Africa's insanity,
As a culture we lack vanity, but this photo should speak comparatively.
.
.
The image of my mother carved into her young mind,
Yet the villagers pray to a presence of the heavenly divine.
Leaning back on her weak memorial cross, my heels digging in the dirt,
My muscles taught pushing ANGER out of my bloodied shirt.
Looking back at the village, the comforting men and women,
Fuck them, FUCK YOU, Fuck all of the young children.
I sincerely hope you enjoy this short story of my life,
One where even we, the young, live constantly under a teetering knife.
Sitting back, in my own pool of blood, ten years later,
The man replaces the boy, a dead woman next to me after I raped her.
Looking at the photo of my sister and I when my mother died,
Peering up into the deep wells of her child, too shocked to cry.
Realisation strikes, limping weakly through the halls,
Blood speaks volumes, as it has plastered these school walls.
Falling dead under a shattered cross, without any sense of loss,
Becoming that which I hated the most, yet feared the cost.
Deserving this end, this pain, this disgust, the scowls from families,
For life is cyclic, Revenge is a trap for all of our pieties.
Remember my sister, my mother, all those who died that fateful day,
Pray for them, think of them if you have a moment, don't go out of your way.
