The night before I met my lover,
The sun had set behind the backdrop
of the fickle horizon
and the moon crept from the pits of hell,
shining its ghostly form
and bringing forth the deadliest of nights.
Demons of every variety,
ghouls and goblins and giants
with snarling mouths
and pitiless eyes,
bulbous noses on barking gnomes
and from the graves,
arose the undead,
skin clinging desperately
on the rotting skeletons.
…
The city was aflame with screams
and the air was heavily perfumed with graveyard soil
and decaying flesh.
The streets ran crimson with dried blood
and a lone child, abandoned
but not completely helpless,
cried a terrible cry
as his world crumbled in front of his undeveloped eyes.
…
The government sent troops,
Battle ready men and women
fed on hypocrisies and rich lies
that unsettle the stomach,
die gallantly in front of the cameras,
rigor mortis sets in
perfectly,
as they smile.
…
The death of night,
the sky a bruised purple,
and the portal to hell,
a wide scar on the Earth,
oozes rapidly,
demons sprouting from the pores
and a devilish cackle adding to
the cacophony of screams and moans of pain,
a symphony of suffering,
the cadence melodic,
As if each moan and groan
was harmonized, planned and practiced.
A false imitation of real pain.
…
The night I met my lover,
we fled,
never looking back,
with targets pinned to our back,
for we knew the truth–
the truth, the cure,
we ran from the lies
we were bottle fed from the teat.
Mecca-Amirah Jackson 