Picture taken from Pinterest
Sometimes I ache to write about
the blood of children mixed perfectly
with wet earth until their wails
chime well with the wind in our ears
as it whoosh past us and all we hear
is the rustle of delicate leaves while remnants
of pain and terror get lost in the air;
a chirp, a whistle.
a sinister energy when we are caught
in the cobwebs of our thoughts.
I wonder if all the times I felt fear
grip my throat at night amidst nothingness
are the screams of innocents
dying at the hands of people without guilt
in their directory of feelings,
mere followers with a history of hate,
wolves in cheap “kind” disguises.
Most days, the words for injustice
flesh and fester inside of me,
boiling with a rage
that it rightfully deserves,
a portion of my heart
for the children I fail to save.
On other days, I let it wash over me,
a powerless ant under a boot,
armed with a few words
and a reckless courage
in the face of the end.
You can follow the author on Instagram at: @rita.fernandez.poetry