Kid, watch your hair is getting darker and darker.
Your home is a torn place where dreams are product of lies.
Of the radio frequencies and TV programmes.
You wore that hooded sleeves that day.
Marching to the black ground, an open space beneath the grey sky.
It was Monday as I recall.
You waved your hands goodbye.
To the snipers at building four lying low.
Kid, I’ve told you I wouldn’t stand in the dark.
They were serious as always.
I screamed at you to get back.
But you ran and embraced their pack of lies.
Jena
