Mourning

The tires screeched till the blood
escalated from a trickle to a gush.
The puppets of human cliches
stood there, mum and uncomfortable,
waiting for their cue.
Should they be sad? Or should they rush?
Do they save? Or stand in a corner with wishes?

In the head, they are all heroes.
Martyrs returning from their daily struggle.
Self proclaimed leaders of tomorrow.
They doubt, they criticise, they juggle.
They uphold happiness and avoid sorrow.

The reality stands opposing the head.
Death slips in
but not swiftly
not at once.
But, it sets slowly like the winter sun.
The world has never seen an end
so furious, so final.

Dinner is served at eight
and the crowd slowly vacates
to ensure a full tummy
and their short term memory.

The Nothingness of Nothing

There is nothing in everything,
yet nothing is like everything.
There is nothing in nothingness.
There is nothingness in a broken heart,
a hungry beggar, a melancholic bard.

One experiences nothingness
when they say, "you're nothing."
Doesn't matter if they softly whisper
or scream it from rooftops or even whimper.

The nothing in nothingness engulfs you
feeds on you like vermin,
covers you like a blanket
in a cold winter night.
Nothingness never leaves
without a fight.

This fight is nothing,
It is amusing, it is unnecessary
Yet, nothingness suddenly becomes everything.
It is tedious, long and weary.

Eventually, nothingness triumphs over nothing.
It becomes important, omnipotent and all pervasive.
Nothing disappears,
while nothingness stays,
strong, healthy and gradually impassive.

The children of Gaza

A strip of land
few people, fewer humans.
Guns, missiles, tunnels
looking for the perfect enemy.
Not you, not me
they are the faces on your channels.
Tiny faces, tinier hands.
Some call them children,
the children of Gaza.

Black and grey,everywhere
Red is in abundance too.
They drowned in these colours
stand in contrast to the rainbow above.
Little dreams, littler hopes.
They call them children,
the children of Gaza.


Peace, ceasefires and agreements
are the holidays they get.
Different from the one in Christmas.
They smile their rented smiles
crouched in their homely tents.
Short heads, shorter lives.
We call them children,
the children of Gaza.