Life and death, how can something so perplexed illuminate such simple results.
Life is freedom, chance, survival yet the little boy and girls from Syria never even got a chance to bloom,
they say love is like a flower it grows with care- then why is it that they're voices are muted with I wish I could have's, I should have's, and I cants.
Life is about giving someone a chance to be considered.
I am not considered.
He wasn't considered.
She didn't even live, and they were never found.
We are taught world politics in class but never were we once told to care, they teach us to dominate but they don't teach us to share,
they warn us about the danger in a foreign land but what about the danger right in our backyard,
the thought of befriending strangers are discouraged but sometimes just sometimes strangers becomes lovers and lovers become saviours.
Truth is I need a stranger, tug me by my heart strings and lead me out of this darkness.
What is living if living thrives on exploiting, and exploiting perpetuates forgetting, voices are forgotten.
The ghost of him and the ghost of her tread lightly. Their whispers like the cool summer breeze, their cries like sharp winter gusts.
Their pain was payment for our ignorance, their pain was paid in full.
Their voices no longer echo. Their pain muted by temporary false care. There are no ears to left hear them. There are no years left to help them.