Baskadia

They are all dead and I'm alone.

I hear them speak and whisper.

Words so strong and light.

There in the shadows they lurk.

Faces so disfigured and unrecognizable.

But I remember them all clearly.

These are my parents and siblings.

They all died in a house fire, burnt to a crisp.

I hear strange voices and have strange dreams.

I wonder what they are including their meaning.

'O death how unfair you are.'

Are their faint words and cries.

Sometimes I hear screams of shallow and deep voices.

I hear them as they cry in anguish and pain.

As they scratch their burning skins to rub off the fire.

As they run towards the locked door to try and open it.

I hear the owl cry, mourning and wailing.

On a tree besides our house on the tallest branch.

Sometimes I hear a call from the grave In my dreams.

Hands reaching out to me telling me to go.

I ask a friend she says their spirits need rest.

That injustice was committed unto them and need revenge.

But I'm only twelve, what can I possibly do?

Yet I still have no sleep at all.

How I pray to heavens for help.

O how I seek redemption and peace from all this.

Who is to deliver me for my youth's been ruined.

Who do I craw to for my legs are numb from fear.

They say a ritual of the wash away should be performed.

I'm a kid and you want me sleep on a grave and feed the dead raw meat!