An animate frustration.

I am in no utter shape to write. I have no identifiable talent of such, nor should I be distinguished as having one. The effortless fluidity of words does not emerge naturally out of me. Countless inspired phrases of perfect eloquence do not fill the depths of my mind. I am a headless amateur trying to find her justice in ink and paper.

I, the ever-persistent pen puppeteer, am not a writer.

Well, as to not entirely dismiss possibilities, at least… not yet one.

Star-crossed Lovers

The Lights above
did not intend to disagree
but still, they do,
on each passionate reverie.

The scrolls have been written
it exists in permanence
that a lover of the black star
is destined for decadence.

Not a single touch or hold
can withstand the bound,
the repellent strength
of those who hound.

Shunned will be the surrenderer
whose heart aches to the oath
ill evermore is the case
and the fate of the star-crossed.

To fester

The flaring graveyard
of decaying suicides
angered the night sky.

I apologize for the lack of any other appropriate word to express my unfeigned plead.

But would you politely and kindly please fuck off?

Seasons of the Sky

it was always candid
the blue
illuminated cobalt
of the afternoon sky

then a rush of heat
waved over the horizon
strangely tangerine
burning veracious eyes

it stuttered, going sober
to a wondrous plum
the shade of mystical pursuit
like a thief in the night

and it loomed
the dramatic overlay of darkness
a chill of opaque winter
the beginning of an evening

Bloodshed Injustice

The midday breeze was crammed with subdued wintriness, gunshots and the eerie screams of women as each bullet was fired. Mothers wept for their sons and daughters from afar, screaming self-acquainted names and German obscenities to the sky as one out of a thousand children fell to their knees and collapsed to the ground.

My son’s life was taken during sunrise.

I was in the crowd, a head among a myriad of other mothers who stood by, freezing and numb in my scant clothing. He, on the other hand, was at the opposite end of the camp, half-dressed and cold as the other young boys were. I caught sight of him lining up patiently (a trait he inherited from me), his arms wrapped around his feeble chest, shifting side by side as he searched for me as well.

The stream of tears that had gushed from my eyes was not because of the anticipation of both our deaths, but of the immeasurable paint of joy on his face as he eventually found me – my boy waved frantically and a throaty “Mami” escaped from his shivering lips. I raised my right hand to give it a little sway but kept the other one firmly on my mouth to stifle the whimpers I have fought to hide.

Another high-pitched wail was discharged into the air. The brawny lad in front of my son had already surrendered to the floor. It was his turn.

I kept his gaze as he was ushered by a soldier (grünes Männchen as he always called them) to step forward and stand still. His black hair was illuminated by the sun’s light as it rose to meet with his eyes – his father’s eyes.

Nothing else was remarked by my senses during those seconds but my son’s last traces of life – last blink, last unconscious raise of his left eyebrow, last twitch of the nose, last toothless smile, last breath…

Before my eyes was the thievery of my son’s life and the fate of a million others.

Decisions

Halt.
My word!, a niche in time;
though not utterly aggravating life’s natural flow.

It was merely a second,
a second in all its entirety,
when two arrows were arched from their bows
and only one struck the bull’s eye.