The Other Colors

We see this world, stitched with different colors. Unmoving realms, wrinkled in black and white. We see this world, sown with different threads. Static hues of good and evil, patched with pretty words. We see this world so riddled and abused. Motionless and in decay, we see a world so dark and grey.

The bombs are falling, as the clouds are crying. Rain soaks the ground as blood slithers in the rubble. The children cower and scream, while angels hide somewhere off in heaven. The airplanes come, stroking the city with the caress of a flame. They kiss the soldiers with a machine guns’ touch. Behind, they leave piles of bricks, and stacks of bodies, all blackened from the gentle fiery tongues.

The men are dressed, so handsome and so shiny. Crisp and sharp, with rifles in their grip. Their hearts twinkle with pride and courage. Ready to die, they yell. Ready to die and ready to kill. Sleek and smart, they creep into the night. Alive and strong, as they leave.

The men are dressed, so brittle and so damaged. Once young and cheerful, now they’re old and coarse. Once shiny and sleek, their skin is stained with the scent of death. Rifle in hand they rest, waiting for orders to fight once more.

Shooting, and stabbing, dying and burning; why do we usher our youth into the fray? Why do we cast a mold over their eyes? Why can’t we tell them about the colors? Why can’t we tell them about the other stitches?

How can we come to believe that tomorrow may be different if we are narrating it for our children? The stories told, penned in different colors; one side scribbled in black, and the other scratched in white.

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