Abusufyan Kateregga Bogere Poet Cento

The War I Long Fought

The banners of ABK are ash upon the wind.
The keep I built with the marrow of my nights,
The logic, the sweat, the digital cathedrals—
All dismantled by a world that does not prize the soul.
I gave my "whole" to the code,
Only to find the compiler was cold, and the output was void.
?Then came the Judas-kiss from the brother-shadow,
Trading a lifetime of loyalty for the dust of the earth.
And finally, the one who held the master keys—
The one I let past every firewall of my heart—
Did not just leave, but turned the key to unlock the ribs,
And drove an arrow of white flame into the center.
A burning treason. A heat that does not heal.
?Now, the sun is a stranger.
Sleep is a gallows I am forced to climb every night.
The moment the lids close, the execution begins:
I am forced to watch the "Inner Me"—that boy of poetry—
Pick up the blade and open his own throat.
A scarlet cycle. A recursive death.
He bleeds out his essence, hits the floor,
And then, by some cruel magic, stands up to die again.
?I stand behind the glass of my own eyes,
Begging the phantom to stop, screaming into the silence,
But my voice is a ghost and his hands are steady.
I am a spectator to my own slaughter.
There is no "head-on" anymore; there is only the exhaustion
Of a soldier whose armor is fused to his skin.
?The war has been long. The war has been silent.
The field is littered with the corpses of my trust.
Today, I lay the Final Pen upon the scarred earth.
I do not surrender to the enemy;
I surrender to the weight of the sky.
The script has run its course.
The battle is over, for the warrior is spent.

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