The Trigger
When you look outside your bedroom window,
what do you see?
Bare leaved and unclothed trees.
Black soil with not a single green.
Rocks carved to sharp little knives.
Wooden posts pointing to the sky.
Wires rounded and crafted for defence,
when any more so they are preventing any from rest.
Chains hanging and dangling on school walls,
where blood drips and slashes remain to scar.
You look up to see a dark long rod,
darting high above before it explodes raw,
releasing little drops of poison liquid,
to burn the flesh for the hunger of blood.
Big artillery machines strolling through innocent lives.
Bullets passing through what was once knowledge and wise.
The sound of earth cracking to its core,
fills your ears,
expanding the sore.
The sound that hunts every child’s nightmare,
the one that can never seem to end despair.
The loud sound of shouts echoing the caves,
words of hate all that are being made.
You scan the land again wishing it were some nightmare,
but it only becomes worse than one simple scare.
The reality.
The reality.
A little boy child.
Red shirt,
blue jean shorts,
washed up on shore.
What would you do?
