Philistine Ayad

Writings from Rioting Thoughts: Prisoner

The men, all armed and waiting—shake

she sees them flinch… then tense:

enjoys the fear, the quake of orbs

that signal to commence   

a battle fraught with ill—a loss;

her mind then renders pain

how sweet to capture captors’  harm

she grabs a sheet to stain

her tears, the font upon the page

 the ink, an iron stench

down dripping—falling—into rage

hands, tightly quiver—trill

the symphony of screams her muse

she then recalls a time

amazing joy with peace, there was

never a bruise. Sublime.