The History of Future

The pages of the foretold past
are going to be held in shivering
hands, lips stuttering syllables
as they spell out the untimely death
of stories of little children and
little hands, and little hearts, all
offered as a bargain to keep the
disputing heart at bay;
the dried up blood, the broken
pieces of people covered in white
sheets will be too pale and too two dimensional,
the pixels carelessly dilated into the empty
eyes of the people who lived and lived;
there will be elaborate euphemisms
in quotes, they’ll quote us in their
notes, they’ll swiftly put the input
of how terror woke the unsuspecting
sheep, how the wolves howled,
but the bears and their bigotry
shot and murdered and pulled at the skins
till there were none to speak,
the mouths will cajole the harsh “r”s
of terror, like a flower bud pinched
to drown out its colour,
but that only happens to our skin:
the chapters of their history will
drag out the troubling world of
fear, and all they’ll say
is that we wrote poetry
about the love we never gave to our kin.


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