"What Would there Be?"

 Onto the palm

Letters scribble a story.

 

Stolen!

 

As voice fades in rounds

Muffled to the ear.

 

Imprinted!

 

Down onto the canvas

The palms stamps on

To review art in pain.

 

Shaken!

 

The lines blur to stares

Seeing stars colliding to war

Peace escaping the pieces.

 

Scattered!

 

A village remain but torn

Only reminisce of past civilization stands

Standing the ground of Kings bloody plays.

 

Tomorrow!

 

Rising to the occasion of informed past

Like ants a civilization of Ubuntu is birthed

Defeating the monster jailing the mind.

 

Hope!