By Obemata
S.O.S
these letters bleed,
just so you know
the pain of too much pain.
there is a tongue
crying for mercy,
the trope of a rope
around the neck,
stained by blood
and tears,
pulled taut at the point
that life surrenders.
this is not a dream;
it is the image of this city,
besieged, sleepless,
despairing. look at Nero’s
lookalike fiddling on the balcony
overlooking streets
lined with spent cartridges,
children weeping
in plain sight
of the enemies.
picture this:
blown out houses,
split ends.
mothers wounded by the despair
of children
they can’t save.
a city covered in smoke.
a wake of vultures,
circling crows.
the rest is grief.
how much do tears
and blood weigh?
how much longer
can I cry for this rope
to be slackened?
underneath the slaughter slab,
or should I say under our feet,
there are SOS letters-
yours
and mine.
ours.
