Against Ourselves

Kathleen Abrey

After the Ides of March, four hundred

thousand pure casualties.

Darkness stole the glossy white pearl,

Icy tundra untainted, solitary.


Once whole, potent, now fragile, diseased,

It spread as fast as a plague.

Slaughtering, wreckage, massacre,

Waves splatter a lethal heavy black venom.


Contagious. Crude. Crying pained black tears.

Agonizing, torturing.

Stiff bodies waft through twin borders,

Shadows permanently stain silky sands stone.


Trying to escape, but feathers heavy.

Suffocate. Inhale ashes.

Lost in the fog. Can’t see, swim, soar.

Fatal, perdurable for them. and for us?


Feeble. Pitied, but paralyzed to aid.

We the enemy. We the victims.


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