Poetry

During the litany of questions, 
I will talk to you, 
about the innocence 
of flowing river. 
 
Here was your faultline. 
You had washed your words in 
the dirty stream. 
Now, you were complaining about the winds. 
 
I will not ask you 
to kill the thrill of hurting 
the defence. But 
were you ready for a recount? 
 
Black, as a burnt-out bread, 
the time; will leave the wounds open. 
I will write a poem 
you will start screaming.