A Boy At The Window Poem by Zoe Guillory

War raged on as if that was how it was meant to be.
There were no sides. You killed your allies,
or you were killed by them. Fear made us
choose the former. Tears rolled down my sweaty cheeks.
Blood stained my mud-splattered skin and clothes
and fear.
The streets smelled of Hatred. Why so much Violence?

I desperately wanted to stop and mourn
for fallen friends, but there was no time for weakness.
I had to keep moving so no one could learn my strategy,
armed only with shields for eyes and daggers for teeth
and fear.
The streets smelled of Hatred. Why so much Violence?

I marched silently. My shoes made no sound against
the pavement and my footsteps were invisible.
I thought this would protect me: not my first mistake.
As far as I would see were nothing but the aftermath
of massacres and the afterthoughts of murder
and fear.
The streets smelled of Hatred. Why so much Violence?

I looked up to see a small, pale face hiding
behind a window. His arms were at his sides.
His eyes were expressionless bubbles.
I stood and stared at his innocent features,
and the child-who was blind to the bloodshed
that lay before him-held up his hand in a wave.
My face broke into a smile as I waved back.