The living rolled the dead into mass graves,
Each body held down by death itself.
Their smiles no more - broken bones vine round each other,

Brown bleeds into purple, twisted necks, snapped jaws.

An army of masked figures, their limbs that shoot silver bullets dragged along with them. They had returned to the City of God.

A place where god forgets about you.

Where the night has dominion over the day as the day does over the night.
Where crackhouses are a place of charity and family.
Where the faceless chase unnamed people down, untitled roads, where unarmed citizens line up to be gutted with a gun and left to dry in the heat.

A place where money is not made of paper but of powder and grass.
The men there slept with demons, preached about the pious ones, thought they knew about sex and religion.
But all they actually knew about was emptiness and collision, whilst smoking avarice at the end of a red brick road that did not lead to The Wizard of Oz.

It leads to camps of Mothers like your own cupping their hands in prayer over open wounds, Hoping that their words would heal the malnutrition and infection of their young.
No one wanted to stand trial.
So a jury of bodies roll out of the mass graves, lifted like marionettes on strings,
Their smiles decaying but their legs dancing. Bones popping back into their sockets.
Bruised skin bleeding back to brown, heads spinning forward, empty mouths with tongues so ripe that they looked ready to harvest.

Spitting out each tooth into a ditch.

Three questions -

Why do you stand for?

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Where is your peace?

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What is your truth?