I kneel down next to the fresh stump.
White blood seeps though my fingers
as I reach for the open wound.
Was it really necessary?
He is as good as done,
he says
dead in a few days anyway.
A few days.
With the swing of a machete,
a movement so natural to the perpetrator,
days of life
(perhaps more)
were robbed from this godly creature.
Now, all that is left
is the bleeding stump
that lies weeping on the floor,
brutally shrunk to inches.
No longer
does the tall sprout of life
stand proud amongst its brothers,
and he does not know.
He does not know that
in a second,
and with a simple,
swift,
almost meaningless movement,
he eliminated any chance of hope.
He stomps over the tombs
ignorant as ever
and carries on
with his genocide duties for the day.
Murder
goes ignored once more, and
Death
roams unseen,
unheard
unstopped.
