By Mardaweh Tompo

And the ground is riddled with the bullets from a pistol without a trigger,
Holding hands soaked in blood as the forceps of the grave digger-
Touches heaven by stepping on hell,
And I’m gasping for a breath of opportunity when the precious air seems immune to me,
Though I did what they’ve done before, the heroes I didn’t know were human,
Their scowls I wear like new appendages to an amputee,
Awkwardly moving between hostility and peace,
In a world where the artist is despised and revere in context
I’m haunted by the righteous souls who warned me of this complex,
But I can’t hear their words

Poem copyright Mardaweh Tompo  // read more here.