‎Torn — under the watch of eyes and ears,
‎A miracle stinging like an early grave,
‎Full of earthquake and quiet,
‎Conceived by fashionable colours of hate and misguidance.
‎
‎It’s their songs that scare me,
‎Words carved from boiling blood,
‎Chewed with salt and ravaging disgust,
‎I look at my hands and see them all,
‎Like a mirror under the scarlet sun.
‎
‎I watch their chants; I hear them pray,
‎Full of bitterness, serpented at the wrong image,
‎I feel their venom — raw, with claws.
‎Is this the way life treats those who believe in Him?
‎It’s what they poisoned me to confess, what I did not do,
‎My innocence shows me I’m not alone.
‎
‎The angry sun tells on my naked flesh,
‎Tired of me, tired of the stripes on my skin,
‎The red earth licks my blood, and my body will soon be an offering,
‎I look at the world one last time and realise:
‎Mercy never worked here
‎And peace is just an agent of its own upbringing.
‎
‎Clouded smoke—
‎The smell of burning tyres mixing with sorry flesh.
‎
‎Is God not merciful enough to see me?
‎God sees all.
‎
‎

 

 

 

Photo by Jakob Owens on Unsplash