Midnight

Midnight.

The absolute absence of light.

Midnight.

The kingdom of moonlight.

Cursed to sleep,

Eyes are stitched shut viewing dreams-

Flowers if Hecate is kind and

Skulls if she is not.

Sentenced to a brief period of hibernation,

Only the rebellious winds rustle the leaves,

The flowers,

Obstructed by rocks,

Unable to slice it in two equal halves.

Droplets of condensed milk draw a translucent-trail,

Abusing the silence of the night,

Abusing the silence.

Desolation and isolation are the new norms.

Serenity is long forgotten.

Only the momentary pause of the actions of the day.

Only the momentary absence of the living.

Midnight.

The absolute absence of daylight.

Midnight.

The kingdom of the moonlight.

Child Soldier

War is that point of negotiations when whords are no longer enough.

Now, its all left to who holds the best.

Brick by brick falls to pieces

desperate yells silenced.

The sun glares. The rain screams

Thunder- the orchestra of the explosion of grenades,

while lightening rips across the sky, slicing the empire of the clouds, the same way

the sword slices human flesh-

like butter.

The moon is red. It bleeds, collecting and attracting blood from the sliced

decaying remains rotting on the fields where the war was silenced, the same

way a magnet attracts metal to itself.

Ceasefire cleanses the clamour of the previous night.

After all, no longer is the child soldier compelled to fight.

Years fly by, like the birds who’s wings rule the kingdom of the supposed heaven.

The sun smiles now.

The moon is gentle.

Thunder is soft.

Lightening is spectacular.

Flowers bloom on the forgotten battlefield-

red, blue and a rainbow of colored petals with a jade green grass background,

covering up the previous horrors brilliantly,

just as a bright smile does.

Yet, the child soldier,  now turned adult holds the eyes of a warrior and the grim smile

of one who’s soul was snatched away

by the Gods of this demented warfare.