I see the blood,
forming a repulsive graffiti on the floors.
I hear the gunshots,
ringing in the air
producing a melancholic melody.
I listen to the screams,
going in rhythm with the triggered bullets.
I see the pain in their eyes,
as a reflection of me.
We became one in this anguish,
the pain makes us a replica of one another.
If only it was the opposite.
Hope comes as a whisper,
one I can barely hear.
The agony sounding deeper,
that my eardrums bleed.
Everyone patiently waiting to see,
where the story leads.
as it writes itself with it’s bloody ink…
Our blood, an ink.
