Anarchy
He littered the streets, upset the tables and threw them all onto the floor. He snatched morsels from the children’s mouth, and grabbed the last of bones from the stray mutts on the road. He walked through to the city in the sun, and turned off the sun. He stormed into the hearts of men, and replaced manhood with the nature of beasts. He carried in his hands the gift of disease and pestilence, and he ushered into the door a new age, the age of the traitorous, of hunger and greed. Parents hide from their children to eat in the dark praying they hear not a crunch and wake. Infants and toddlers hang on to withered breasts, and careless whispers become a death sentence. Oh it no longer is a town with people but ghosts. Dissidents tip-toe across the streets, carrying with them wordless words and accusations, whispering into the night to unhearing ears and unseeing eyes. When the children of the town were young, they prayed for joy in life, but when sorrow knocked their doors, the only thing that mattered became refuge, and they gave up their pens for guns and traded their uniforms for military fatigues. The ringing of school bells was replaced by that of sirens and assignments turned into missions. Young children throng the streets, fighting for a bleak future they do not belong in. Woe unto they, children of anarchy, caught in the middle of a battle they do not understand, fighting wars waged by their parents, fighting to survive, nay, fighting to die. For the few that managed to escape, the road to the springs was marred by mirages, and the green in the distance was not of vegetation but of poison and envy. They tried to run away and to save their lives, but anarchy followed them still with his wheels rumbling down the street, and his hungry train swallowing all in its wake. What to find, in a land with gasps for breath? Women go into troubled labour, yell in the streets and anarchy, like a forbidden hurricane runs his sword through them, consuming them and their illicit fingerlings, victims of a war they never waged. So to those that still bears with them flickering flames of hope, what freedom is there after death had eaten all in its wake? What freedom is there, when vultures stand supreme on a mound of rotten flesh, conquered by the very guns that sought to conquer for them? What is there to be reaped off a field of anarchy, where friend turned to foe, and love was substituted for hatred? So what is there to be found in a group of trigger happy men, with tongues sharper than daggers, with a penchant for sticking knives up people’s backs? What more to be harvested but the bitter fruits of anarchy? In the place of love, he has planted deceit, and in the place of peace, anarchy has felt at home. He has raped them, the virgins of the town, and lo, and behold, their wombs carry the illegitimate fruit, of warmongers and belligerence, and they shall birth like dogs in holes and rubbish pits. They shall be claimed, the children, and they shall be robbed of their innocence and turned into men, devils. So lock the door, good children, before you go to bed. Anarchy rules the streets, let him not rule your hearts. Be strong, and resist his advances, for he only arrives when he is allowed to.
He littered the streets, upset the tables and threw them all onto the floor. He snatched morsels from the children’s mouth, and grabbed the last of bones from the stray mutts on the road. He walked through to the city in the sun, and turned off the sun. He stormed into the hearts of men, and replaced manhood with the nature of beasts. He carried in his hands the gift of disease and pestilence, and he ushered into the door a new age, the age of the traitorous, of hunger and greed. Parents hide from their children to eat in the dark praying they hear not a crunch and wake. Infants and toddlers hang on to withered breasts, and careless whispers become a death sentence. Oh it no longer is a town with people but ghosts. Dissidents tip-toe across the streets, carrying with them wordless words and accusations, whispering into the night to unhearing ears and unseeing eyes. When the children of the town were young, they prayed for joy in life, but when sorrow knocked their doors, the only thing that mattered became refuge, and they gave up their pens for guns and traded their uniforms for military fatigues. The ringing of school bells was replaced by that of sirens and assignments turned into missions. Young children throng the streets, fighting for a bleak future they do not belong in. Woe unto they, children of anarchy, caught in the middle of a battle they do not understand, fighting wars waged by their parents, fighting to survive, nay, fighting to die. For the few that managed to escape, the road to the springs was marred by mirages, and the green in the distance was not of vegetation but of poison and envy. They tried to run away and to save their lives, but anarchy followed them still with his wheels rumbling down the street, and his hungry train swallowing all in its wake. What to find, in a land with gasps for breath? Women go into troubled labour, yell in the streets and anarchy, like a forbidden hurricane runs his sword through them, consuming them and their illicit fingerlings, victims of a war they never waged. So to those that still bears with them flickering flames of hope, what freedom is there after death had eaten all in its wake? What freedom is there, when vultures stand supreme on a mound of rotten flesh, conquered by the very guns that sought to conquer for them? What is there to be reaped off a field of anarchy, where friend turned to foe, and love was substituted for hatred? So what is there to be found in a group of trigger happy men, with tongues sharper than daggers, with a penchant for sticking knives up people’s backs? What more to be harvested but the bitter fruits of anarchy? In the place of love, he has planted deceit, and in the place of peace, anarchy has felt at home. He has raped them, the virgins of the town, and lo, and behold, their wombs carry the illegitimate fruit, of warmongers and belligerence, and they shall birth like dogs in holes and rubbish pits. They shall be claimed, the children, and they shall be robbed of their innocence and turned into men, devils. So lock the door, good children, before you go to bed. Anarchy rules the streets, let him not rule your hearts. Be strong, and resist his advances, for he only arrives when he is allowed to.
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