If only the burning of bridges
remains an idiot’s idiom
and we could still dream of flowerbeds
and never hear gunshots
of freedom from a remote uproar
lay the sword to rest –
what powers does it hold under a child’s gaze?
even time halts for mourning
when the sharp edges of tyranny
dug deep down their tiny bellies
why must we smell the flowers?
read people with dead shot eyes
after a while
the trees shall whisper
some so-called heroes’ anthem
who spoiled the soil that fed them
while our ruins
are traded for inorganic memories
or so history went
and thought free verse rhymes
or weaves a synopsis of the future
but we refuse to breathe
the putrid lies
our masked men feed
a gold miner’s poverty
alongside fragile footsteps.
-Armineonila M., 2016
Mini musing: The pen is mighty until its ink had dried out.