Yes, some of it is fictional, but I when I go to open-mic poetry readings, I try to bring it into the room. I wrote this in the bathroom of a coffee shop last minute at an open mic. It would probably be better, but I didn’t want to tie up the bathroom for too long. Haha!
The earth here is singed with war and bartered for by warlords.
Sticky puddles of blood are everywhere. My combat boots are heavy, the rubber of my souls, inadequate.
There are casualties. They made bombs in their kitchens, where women once made their breads.
They are cut. The weight of their legs gone from their bodies.
We all smell of rusty metal and are in shock. Their children turned against us. Metal shrapnel cut the sky open for us.
Flames hissed a warning at us. Don’t come back here.
When we are home, our nightmares become dreams, become real.
There is no shelter from this doom.
Emotions flash across paper. Fractured souls are bleeding and sleeping on pavement.
By: Priscilla Madore