Child of Chaos

A poem

This poem is an answer to HVR’s prompt.

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I’ve seen hell.
I was there.

I’ve seen the flames.
I’ve heard the screams—
violent screams.

When the wind
of destruction
hits.

My lungs—
choked with toxic air.
Black smoke
from burning rubber
rising off the ground.

I’ve seen despair
on the faces of my people—

fathers,
mothers,
sisters,
brothers.

Even children
weren’t spared.

“GRENADYE, À L’ASSAUT!”

the crowd screamed.

Blinded by fear,
by hunger,
by misery—

pawns
in the game
of crooked politicians.

Yeah.
I lived through hell.
I survived.

And that’s why I laugh
when some idiots think
they can scare me.

I’ve looked death
straight in the eye.

Like a mad beast,
grinning at me.

It reached out its hand,
trying to drag me—
by force—
into its feast.

I’ve known
what it means
to not know if there’s a tomorrow.

That frustration
when chaos comes
and crushes every illusion.

When violence
spares no one.

When revolution
promises more blood
than peace.

When bastards
play Russian roulette
with people’s lives.

Revolution—

the weapon of the desperate,
the lever of the poor,

but also
a tool of the powerful.

Even the powerful bow to it.
Even the powerful
use it.

I am a child of chaos.

My heart beats
to the drums
of revolution.

Flames.
Smoke.
Burnt air.

It sticks to your skin.

Violence
lives in my chest.

A stain
in my soul.

I come from a land
that never stopped
burning.

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With clarity,
The Mirror Room
Odel A.