journey through

Jabez What do you know of peace when all you speak of is war? What do you know about living when all you do is hanging of hoops and sharpening of knives? What do you know of harmony when all your time is spent in the forges preparing thy tongue? You are not a warrior for peace. You are a messenger of impunity. You are not an object of love. You are one of sorrow and sadness. I saw your mother, and she was weeping, oh Jabez, you were born with pain, and your name was that of anguish. You have suffered, and you have borne a heavy load. Oh Jabez, she weeps that you broke her heart, and your conception tore her in two. Thou art cursed, and your life shall be like that of a runaway bitch. You shall be kicked and insulted. You shall be the child of the dark, born and bathed in bile and sterile ash. You were born of hips that refused to yield you. While others were born among feathers, you were delivered on the cold and crowded floor. Oh Jabez, thy name means grief. Oh Jabez, the hunter of

Death of the Inmate When they took you from your house, you saw the crowd and raised your voice, but they drowned it with their conspirator’s whispers. You heard them lay accusations on your head, and they heaped coal on you. You felt their words bite deep into your flesh, as they lead you up the mountain, to make the last feast of you. Even though many were against you that day, you were believed by a few, those who were keen to understand than to judge, those who were keen to listen than speak. Just know that you were, and thy death was not vain. Before you even closed your eyes, your case had been solved, and many of those that were pointing fingers had long withdrawn, and they unhanged you from where you were suspended, swinging in the evening wind, and the post creaking with your weight. I heard your dying song, and it made me weep, almost leave my seat. I heard the last of whispers and saw the last of your kicks, but your eyes were wide open even as you left, begging to be beli