The Last Straw Poem by Micheal Bello

It's unusual gray— fettered on her nails
Closure with the gait, of yesterday pains.
She bore the weakness; wrinkles flesh
...veins confess way above the skin.
Her face blurb again; tormenting a smirk
Array by the sound of pat-tap
Her gentle gait lessen.
A knock brush against the door.
Her eye ball, dark dull balls blinked. Eye brows twitched— a small lad dodged weak on the pines.
Feet stucked to same spot; weight of the scarcity.
A tap again—'pat...'

The door jerked, causing the two to grimace in fear.
They marched together like comrades.
Weighting the iron; clung fitly into their fingers.
Letting darkness frame, with reservation.
Each steps loads with gait and agility.
'Remain. Fasten your butt up mama.' tough but gentle
A screech sound of the door
The door fell with a dull thud.
Clasp with fear, her feeble hands braces over her lad.

Again, the morrow came
And fuels skyrocket bail
For hunger rain to gate the sunny bait.
Face flushes with red
'Not again-' would always appeal.
For pen and papers are hammer 🔨 to appeal peace to war.
The last episodes of the livings
Comes as gongs and bickerings.
Their prances, chatters,
cloacky; penetrating the eardrum.
Drum of war here; massacre there
Flute of death; tears abreast.

Where is it?