Poetic Nights

Humanity, It Shall Be Done This world of bloody tears, of survival of the fittest, rots like an open grave’s stench, like the rusty swift of dead’s dirt. Our actions are eagles’ claws, mauling our minds under lions’ paws. Our overflowing creeks become floodwaters. Shorelines of waves of fogs move over our consciences. Shorelines tower our hearts of fierce. Injustices in our place are smelly dead fish from a distance that follow our nostrils anywhere. Riverbeds of blood are everywhere that our hairs are poked flies. They creep over our heads. They are worms over dead. We shave them with our left hands, but they grow itchier than burnt thorns. Injustices and crimes and deceptions and lies and vanities and blood invade this world like intruders. We render our seas of blood, but as the sun dries this dreadful flood, our lakes are thirsty dusts in the Sahara. The innocent nations choke on this aura, like fishes’ bones in a dog’s throat. Our lands are yellow leaves over green grasses, which the sky’s clouds of coughs wean; and hurricanes rise. “We’re not short men who see the ground and the above, but tall men who only notice anything parallel to our eyes,” I said. The red carpet of a green mountain is green-yellow grasses of a fountain, but we’ve white eyes. Thus, our throats parch; our visions blur. Death takes possession of the earth. Truth disappears into ruthless trench. The winds lift the anger of waves’ nature, and spread out the agonized noises of trees. Though our teeth gnash, we let iron chains overflow in between them. The shades of your bodies turn into burning thorns. But our hearts remain as greedy as sows. Resulting in multiple throes of the ending of this world.