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A child, no more than a toddler His religion as set by his mother In discordance with those of another. They saw open his neck Pull back his eyes, make him see that they are the ones with the higher being We pray on the weak They cant stop us Hundreds of women lain in a field Dead. The youngest a teen Barely legal – a Lolitaesque dream Pale breast torn out from cloth arched hip out, offered for soldiers of the system to penetrate again, with a new kind of blade We pray on the weak Aim for the schools and hospitals More of the young and vulnerable Sheltering under school tables No longer doing times tables Propelled by far superi

Sheathed with luminous yellow, taut as a drums skin on prominant bones

Time dragging on impatiently awaiting your arrival, then rushing hands reach expertly through well rehearsed routines shedding each others skin and lying together, interlocking perfectly, at one.

Ink flecked on my legs where like all good writers he likes to leave his mark

The birdsong flutters fast around the sultry afternoon air flitting staccato rhythms resonate sickly sweet like their wings. Beat as they fly above riding on the ascending scale.

Tired eyes, unfocused, trying desperately to concentrate as minuscule black figures waltz around mocking and jeering squinting through bleary vision begging them to stay still if only for a few more seconds

Dancing, racing, gliding faster and faster forming an abundant white mist obstructing the view. "Catch me if you can" they scream and jeer at each other as they fall effortlessly past one another, to see who will hit the floor the first.