The Swelling Boomerang

Four scores and seventy ingrained in blood stained garments ancestors still rumbling in their graves impatient souls lamenting their years pages kept turning pens are writing and the story is unfolding Dead trees hang over broken walls threadbare buildings stand solemnly in a city that was once their home mothers weeping for their children people scramble in the streets and the great big God mewl from above The tough bent curb wood swerves around and cuts massive clouds into thin air chopping trees pounding light posts swinging and dancing from side to side then paused upright in the open space The karma the sprit the holy words a limb for a limb a sword for a sword raw vengeance soaks up the weeping earth Stricken night makes its debut swelling echoes mount from beneath decades of blisters that clinches their feet and the tension brewed as it gets closer The moment fires strange emotions filtering, wrangling and mooting dignity and power captivates stubborn minds and eminent slaughter looms from behind anticipation impress heavily upon tainted lips while an exodus flows in the manmade ditch It aims directly at the center empowered by a forceful northern wind and moves vigorously toward the west I saw her pulling his tiny hand dragging him away from the screaming crowd while she secured her little girl intimately to her thumping chest She struggles through the imposing crowd with faith courage and determination but the swelling boomerang ripped the children from her weary arms swiftly it disappears and she heard these words whispering in her ears Wash your face dry your tears walk close to the mirror and let down your hair listen carefully and tell me what you hear breathe deeply move slowly you are here ©2013 Christine Phillips