My face is crumpled,
The depth of the lines
Clear to witness.
I'm only 35, but feel 75.
My forehead buckles
Under the strain of repression.
My story?
I saw loved ones taken violently away,
I heard multitudes of screams,
Our land darkened by the poison
Of conflict and retribution.
The nightmares don't stop.
I wake mid-tempest with
Chills and cold sweats.
The vibrant era
I was once part of
Now vanishes with
Distant cries of kindred spirits
Slipping away.
I can hear my own screams,
As I'm confined to the
Fringes of a life totally unfulfilled.
I want to crumble,
Something wills me not to.
What that is I'm unsure.
My hair recedes,
A stark reminder
Of what I have lost.
I had a family, a decent job,
A rich and full life, a life
I long to regain.
I'm one of the forgotten people.
I now lie awake, consumed with guilt,
Wondering if I could've done more.
I feel I could.
Perhaps I should've stood tall
When the dealers arrived,
Unwilling to falter.
My son could've been rescued,
His addiction halted.
He was only 10 years old.
I long to avenge his passing.
One day, I will.
My wife beaten to death
For being brave.
I crave her strength every day.
My older brother,
The light in my darkened life,
Also a casualty.
I still hear the electricity
Surging through his brain
As it rapidly fries.
What of me? I now stare
Into a void of destitution.
Can I ever get back
To how I used to be?
The rain has come,
Too late for any salvation.
The clatter of each drop
On my window
Louder with each moment.
When will the shit ever stop?
I don't know.
I'm one of the forgotten people.
Who will hear me now.
(c) NZ 2009.