He could feel it and smell it too,
The burning heartache that churned inside,
He longed for a small mound of love, just little,
It was a soft cry, though it was sad and hopeless
This was an artificially created crisis, but by who?
It had made him small and inside he was a stone,
For his heart carried a quiet kind of rebel for all things,
He had come accustomed to all evil spewed on him
Although he was surrounded by a sea of honest petals,
That danced graciously in the blameless soft breeze,
Violence had numbed his senses into disbelief,
Could neither feel the highest joy nor the deepest sadness.
He was tethered like a hopeless Christmas animal,
For the onslaught of anything that would kill his peace,
For the world was full of tension and discriminate hate,
He had confirmed that horror on earth is real and…
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Aston kamunde 