They bottled up the Mesopotamian sunrise
in pixels on a screen, in footage from the scene
because they thought you might like to know–
though you should have cared to feel–
what revolution sounds like
when it crashes just outside the door,
issuing smoke, freshly shot through.
The closest you ever came to knowing
was when you confessed you would never know,
sitting, as you were, from prison cells
of mahogany and pewter and fine, polished finishes,
whittling away the hours listening to think tanks, talking heads,
wondering whether peace necessarily bled red,
if that was not indeed the price to pay–
though you should have asked whether you,
gold-plated and fine-tuned to the rhythm of complacency,
were not the odd ones, the extra-ordinary ones,
the ones of stale and stagnant luxury,
veins dry and brittle and hopeless while.
elsewhere, dreams stretched to the sky in red and grey clouds
and streamed red down the streets,
freshly shot through.
Sarah Mills is a Lebanese-American fiction writer, poet, and journalist based in Italy. Her fiction has been published in Litro Magazine, her poetry by the Kuwait Poets Society, and her articles in Al Fanar Media.