Blades of Grass

We, the last warriors of the world,

see our war-shattered realm as a was, and an is, and a what might yet be.

Strong is our connection.

The ones before had tears that dried in a barren land.

Only memories to tempt the blackened earth to sprout colour,

tendrils of greenery, and life, and wonders

that only exist in memories.

Our children will finally wash the blood from the stones.

Coax more than memories from this land,

that still skims along the tipping point,

still yet hoping for the sky’s return,

for soft, growing soil,

for grass.

The blades of grass daring to remain sprout from endless mounds of charred soil.

They have withstood all, bending, but not broken despite the heedless winds, despite the careless flames,

despite the tread of our oblivious feet.

We, the last of the chosen race, dominant beings of Earth,

sit in the ashes and fragments of our kin,

teaching morality tales, and myths of an ocean of people,

feasting on a river of food,

turning the world into a swamp of the rejected.

Dust in our mouths, the bitter fruit of knowledge.

Our war fought so long, the cause we have forgotten.

Lullaby a protest song, trying to remember the words.

Believe that that blood is thicker than water, neither should ever be spilt.

We, staggering survivors, witnesses of the fierce four steeds,

promised today to never deprive another of what we would not deprive ourselves.

To never behold tragedy and proclaim,

I have no power to relieve you of your suffering.

Though it took us to suffer to realise.

Lest we forget, must remind of not of who we lost, but why.

The reason of our pain, though not the sting of it,

gives us hope enough to sprout without fearing the fire.

For sprout we must.

We.

Nothing separates us now.

No status of humankind, no adornment of the skin.

There is nothing but the firm grip of one hand on another,

and the worth of the words we barter among ourselves.

Green with life as from the dead we rise.

We. Us.

We are the blades of grass.

Funky

The house is painted in Communist colours,

its glass is frosted, the panes are closed.

The tin roof is rusted around the rivets,

and the khaki walls resemble wet cardboard.

It has a front row seat to a river of bitumen in flood.

Its neighbours fix drill parts,

and around its skirts cluster the non-recyclable scrag of take-away societies.

The house is empty, old and forgotten.

But…

It could be funky.

A Watcher

A watcher.

On a deserted beach I wait.

Abandoned;

Lonely in my own company.

With fears to plague me,

Akin to those of a lost child.

Dreaming.

A dark stain shadows my mind.

Hurt.

Familiar hands close about my throat.

I struggle, full of fight to live,

Then awake, alone again.

I withdraw.

My shell is my protection.

Separated,

Torn from you I bleed.

You are so far away,

And nothing has changed but me.

A watcher,

Reliving an old love in her heart.

Waiting.

Insecure and terrified to lose.

Though I am safe from the usual scars,

Because you wait for me too.