The War that Never Ends

After the storm that kills,

the sky remains an awful grey.

And as I huddle beneath the rubble,

I dream of a quiet day.

My mother hums in my ears—

melodies that match the beat of drums

playing in the sky,

falling from the sun.

She thinks I do not know,

but the melodies tell me she loves me.

And so, I pretend to remain a child,

even though I have grown used

to the heat of the fire.

In consequences dire,

I put on my father’s cap—

his spirit on my head,

alive in me: my eyes, my hands,

although he is very well dead.

And the dream that I dream—

of a blue sky,

white clouds,

the return of dragonflies—

seems to wait for me only in the afterlife.

Whichever God I meet,

I will not ask why.

For no reason is good enough

for this decade-long demise.

My tiny arms are tired.

They were not meant to carry bodies—

or the head of my father,

before his body was buried.

And my eyes were meant to see greater things:

not red, not rubble,

not grey skies or burning trees.

My ears no longer hear

laughter,

or buzzing bees.

And though the drums may stop,

momentarily,

silence does not replace atrocity.

Instead, the air fills with

varying decibels of anguish.

And yes—

I admit,

I pray for their death.

Because this life

is not worth

the suffering.