If only poetry could shield us from the bullets. If only it could stop the bombs…

We are dead,
Killed by a streak of light,
The scent of almonds,

Limbless toddlers,
We know not where we crawl,
From one hell to another,
Licking our skinned lips
With a rotten tongue,
Charred by gunpowder,
Tasting of sand and spit.

No healers can cleanse
Our broken souls
Either in this world
Or the other;
Blind and mute,
We must return
To become coins again
In a game of barter
For puny kingdoms,
Bloated with hubris.

We are all dead,
Unnamed bodies in
Another man’s war,
Awaiting rebirth
And an inevitable Death
In a pit of bullets,
And fireworks.

[Published in The Creative Cafe in Apr 2017.]

The Enemy

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