when destruction walks with comfort

upon the lands of innocence,

pulses are frozen

trepidation takes over,

all instincts are porcupine,

pricked by caution

The air is treacherous,

it has been bribed by a hazardous silence,

refusing to tell the story

of the next gun shot

or the flight of bullets

but blood is the bold novelist

that tells the story

of how innocent people

are killed,

some amputated

due to a vehement rebellion

to government

The shrapnels dictate

the real game of compulsory

hide and seek,

if you don't conceal your being,

your life shall be snatched away

from you, by the foxy regiments,

soldiers that march like turmoil,

and to these killers

their creed is to shed innocent blood

and death is the ally

that gives them a handshake

You can see houses cry,

as their spines have been broken

by the curse of demolision,

jets, bombers, tanks,

mechanical monsters that synthesize

in an annihilating rage,

the breaks the county to bits

This is the definition of war,

and anger runs through the

veins of rebels,

the streets are consoled with

blood-smothered dead bodies,

all because peace has been maimed,

trust has been beheaded

only guns rule

and disunity smiles

at it rules with an iron fist of tyranny

this is the novel of destruction;

war.

                                                By Kakraba Afful