We Fought.
and our blood became painting for walls and streets
raw and hot, freezing fire,
horrifically attracting
and we danced to the sorrowful rhythm
we hummed to the desperate whispering of the hymns of death
and we fell in love with pain
commuted with danger
we became one with wickedness
and we left our peaceful nakedness
and embraced the uniform of tears mixed with blood and sweat
clothed in the garment of wickedness
with our undergarments as pain and injured hearts
We have marked ourselves with the blood of our ancestors who got massacred while fighting
...to be continued...
Thank you for your time.
My pen doesn't bleed, it speaks, with speed and ease.
Still me,
My tongue is like the pen of a ready writer.
Olawalium; (Love's chemical content, in human form). Take a dose today: doctor's order.
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