In my peripheral vision,
I see the war waging on.
These days, the sunset is merely a reminder that darkness looms and is about to engulf every corner in which light exists. Gone are the days when things glistened with hope. Now hope has become an abrasive stone to throw violently at anything, only for the satisfaction of saying that you held it.
In my peripheral vision,
I see the war consume even my greatest soldiers.
If you listen attentively, you can hear the colours of the night sky whisper in devilish delight as they stretch their arms over what once was bright. Though the sun will rise again, the agony of spending hours in the dark becomes a burden too heavy to sit on your shoulders.
In my peripheral vision,
I see the war take out the last of me.
When you have enough of the sombre, sullen silence, you let your pens clatter on the floor and you wail in the dark. When everything hurts enough, you reach out a limp hand and ask for a torch.
In my peripheral vision,
an angel says no. And now I'm ripped in two.
The false light you crave is nothing but danger. It explodes in your hands and you explode too. Leaving tiny pieces of your existence scattered all around in the dark again.
Nobody made it to the sunrise.
In my peripheral vision,
the war ended it all.
- z. gamieldien.
