Helplessness
as i see the headlines
blinking. blinking.
We blink as we fathom the crime.

‘One more’.
‘One more’ in the line of others,
but this time, he was of my colour.
He was shot for the hue of his skin,
my skin- he will disappear.
we will disappear.
   
I'm a prisoner of my thoughts,
I'm a jailer of my words,
I can cry for help,
but cries are seldom heard

This time, I feel it,
the metal in my mouth.
This time, I feel it,
the silence of my shout.

Helpless, I react;
and this is to tell you,
that I've stopped writing prose,
poems and verse too.
Stopped tasting my art-
art that never fixed the truth,

The truth that he died for no reason at all,
The truth that his life was grating and crude
The truth of the question- ‘What happened to your passion?’
When I tell them it drowned in his bloody, scarlet pool.