Pomegranate Stained Skirts
Pomegranate stained skirts, ruby lined necks,
Ignored pulses, forced to endure on intruders beds.
Innocence stolen by the galloping black stained with crimson red,
As daughters were transformed into the living dead.
History of a vibrant land began to sway,
Like a burning peacock’s tail, colours were led astray.
Charred hope fled up a mountain or into a cave,
Death charmed both, amidst a cruel heat wave.
Wailing echoes, cry songs of a crippled heart,
As newlyweds were crushed and forced apart.
A foreign husband sworn in every hour,
Filling trenches of damaged wombs, unable to flower.
Profane shackles comfort her feet,
As lungs yearn for a rope,
An exit, twisted from dirty bed sheets.
The silent sphere, bursting in bites of doubt,
As humanity began to weep and pour out.
How the faith in their fickle neighbours burned,
As fathers waited for their daughters to be returned.
Suffused in a crimson flood amidst pale, still faces,
I danced amongst a relentless zephyr.
A presto of odourless vapours in symphony with the wind,
Composed of silent roars began to settle me in.
Whispering hymns that left life lingering, I led my own requiem.
Softly inhaled cloud motifs, rhythmic in numbers,
Sheltered my lungs and swallowed me whole.
I waltzed in crystal clear flames before the final curtain call.
Lyrics that spun melodies of a trembling ballad,
Deafened cries of a village petrified,
As spring welcomed songs of genocide.
I first heard her song when I was young.
A song that spoke more courage that could be sung.
I saw her move more than once, she struck my spirit, my soul, my love.
I learned her song and spoke of her lyrics in the dark.
My mountain was a woman, a hero, a spark.
I fought alongside her each day I woke,
her song was mine and mine was hers.
Like the wild, bloodshot flowers that grew on her hair,
our feet were aligned in colour and poignant flair.
I first learned her song when I was young.
I became my hardest climb, she my most beautiful view.
Together we move, yet alone I hum along to her tune.
The allure of a spark can provoke a lonely, jaded, charcoaled mind.
Suffered woes and wails of a wispy heart, so lightly tossed and punched apart.
A torn home saw her body brushed outside, seeking warmth, on a warm summers night. Alone she sat, perched beside a rationed barrel. Desperate to drink it's loads in pitiful gallons. Counting down the moments till her moment came to shine.
Shine, shine, like a flare in the black night, glow and show them your feeble light! Strike the match and make them remember, leave a lasting memory that makes them repent forever...what if they forget? What if they don't cry? What if they never noticed my sunken, peaked eyes, overflowed with streams of painful goodbyes?
One final look back at the door of despair, she gulped her last breath of poisoned air.
As she crawled out of her lifeless grave, she fluttered and flickered, setting herself ablaze.
Another body of ember glowed in the black night, another beacon of prohibited, tribal, female rights.
Another life gave in to the warmth of fire - society, forcing it's daughters to climb and light their own pyres.
They embark this road, as only the ground welcomes their trail.
Crusts of earth swirl around damaged souls, sat in dated machines, avoiding barrels of kings.
Careless reflections and glances begin to toss and turn.
These roads, like waves, swallow them whole.
Solitude roads diverged into the yellow and green, proving magnificent and cunning in sight.
An unavoidable journey's end to a new journey that perhaps has just begun.
Damaged souls, survivors of bombs and chaos, not once spared by our broken roads