Victims of Insurgency

Half choked by a rising paroxysm of rage, then nisus, The brittle and mirthless smile on his face were pathetic, A nonaged; Amputated and broken with a heart big but beats quiet, Suddenly, he sighed deeply, from a kind of mental depletion. His eyes were dilated with unfathomable sorrow, agony, pain and fears. On his cheeks Ran a flood of tears like the red sea. His yelling and rumbles calls for freedom and a far-fetched peace of mind, As his trembling heart fluttered with a vague terror. Born and raised in a once happy home, But the traitorous rebels seeking the droplet of their already sore souls, Wouldn’t let them be. His ribs were countered from afar, Through the cruddy scatted T-shirt hung around his humiliated lanky frame. When his hurrying thoughts and lips clamored for utterance, It was an audible whisper. He has forgotten the last time he ate a good food, Maybe years ago. Insurgency had dwarfed his ambitions in life, A definition of a haunting and horrible sense of insecurity. Daily, their stomachs fed on health and social peril, Their nights were incensed to pass the drudgery of still time, Death was a companion too close to loose, They slept in the shadows of love, And are awoken to ghost of damnation, As their gloomy and hopeful souls sought reasoning from lips made silent. In a moment, he was thirsty, Buried in the dirty and putrid water of mixed cow dung, There he drank, Happily and without complaining, With cows, the wretched mother feeds his other siblings, Grass meal. A bad situation the angels can even weep over, In the Northern part of the Giant of Africa. Thereafter, the poor widow walked up to me and asked, “Why are we trying to live if we were just living to die?” “Why are we hoping to receive when there are no relieve materials in sight?” My thoughts collapsed into an ice, speechless, That was when I noticed that in the Internally Displaced Persons Camp, Life is totally a living hell.