a poem by Cinde Dreyer, South Africa

-Inspired by my sister-

I hold up my white flag,
but it’s a useless attempt.
They still carry on,
shoot from out their guns,
curse from out heir mouths,
their blood-stained anger …overwhelms.
I shoot with my camera,
I speak with my rhyme,
I cry and cry,
in a useless attempt.
They are all rushed,
run around in their crooked circles,
run around in my mind,
with their broken souls.
A rush to the head
A rush of blood
A rush of intoxicated fumes
A rush of encircling smoke.
Vultures circle the sky,
God, He sits up high,
looking down.
Looking at the blood red rose,
the rose on the flag,
the roses on the ground,
being stumped on,
broken down,
like the bones,
like the pride.
And what is left?
Who has won?
When bodies lie scattered over the ground,
scattered in my mind,
the anger and the hurt,
the prick of pain.
Vultures circle the sky,
God He sits up high,
looking down.
Looking at the blood red thorn,
the stars come up at night,
the shooting stars up high,
as many as the guns,
guns that are still shooting, as are the stars,
while encircling smoke runs up high.
High above into Godly arms.

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