In the deepest shadows of life,
threatened are we to disappear
from inside and die from outside,
What did I?
what did they?
Or What did we?
ever do to you so as to be a scapegoat of
your ruthlessly executions.
Vast questions rise on the table about you
and whenever answers get nearer
they change but just sorrow persists.
Ask me no questions and
I will tell you no lies.
You disappear for a short while,
Oh! Relief was our favor!
You come back all in black like
tossing a sort of hide and seek game.
Your smell and touch this time
around more complicated,
hybrid, degenerated,
more touch-and-go.
Perilous enough to;
orphan many children,
widow a peck of mothers,
kill a hatful of fathers,
robbing off a wat of children
from mothers and fathers,
killing many sons, daughters,
fathers and mothers,
What a shadow?
East to west and West to East,
tanks of tears always flow for
the pain you brought.
North to south and from South to North,
echoes of the grieving hearts loud heard,
a reflection of the mournful and
bleeding world for your flagitious crimes.
You kill young and old daily in biggest,
some survive you perhaps the lucky
who are living like they are dying
thus hearts in shadows of bleeding.
What are you? A designated terrorist hiding and striking
with spotless character in our amidst,
Moving inconspicuously in the streets
hunting for contacts,
killing without empathy and compassion
but just thirsty to attack,
leaving families weeping and grieving
while their long faces lugubriously reflecting
hidden and unexpressed pain for the
uncalled suffering you caused and
their throats all gulped
with a plethora of vengeance.
With your mischievousness,
You rob us off our normal well-being,
peace, freedom, sanity and tranquility
but shadow us with curfews,
Lockdown and economic backlash
drowning everything in your shadow,
thus a monkey on everyone’s back
dropping me into deepest epiphany
to wonder as I wander and ask,
What is it that you want?
I know, For I know,
Our benign Parent in Heaven holds all,
and He will end all,
drop you into quietus,
then we will be just as brilliant and
ready for other attacks of your-like,
but for now,
we just blades of grass trying
to reclaim the normal,
because before you were,
we were.
So God help.
©Abol Andrew Chrispus.