Fog

Soft skin turning cold with apathy
Like a freezer on top of the neck muscles
Sending ice-streams through synapses

Beneath the vest, lies blooms and booms
The loud tantrums of detonation
Sonic is the prelude, martyr is the aftermath

She sees heaven in all its glory. The infants she will carry one day
Crying beneath the womb of time. She is the mother
Of all martyrs, snapped into submission.

Life shatters, shrapnel scatter, hysteria splatter
In this delirium of hate. She was the seeker
Of what no other woman could – martyrdom

The chosen one. A bomb inside fiber, igniting
The thread of acrimony, and a line illuminating
Streaks of wrath to a little powder.

Oblivion took a second. Evanescence was a monstrous
Exhale. Debris of life was a masterpiece, an opus of the highest caliber.
Martyr was a puppet stringed to the heavens.

She faded before the carnage, the first in line.
A disfigured dream was all it took. Pain was a sculptor’s palms.
Sculpted was an apocalypse of a marketplace.

Tunnel vision was a home, she burrowed in to.
Hate was a little pact with faith. The children she wanted to carry one day
Were now inside her womb, her body a sarcophagus of corpses.
She was no martyr only a pall bearer of innocence.

There were no kite runners on the horizon
Just angels descending to take small floating kites – tiny souls
Fluttering high above – to heaven’s embrace.

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