The Resistance:

A blistering, battering gale of wind,
Pressing against my living will.
Stinging, striking drops of rain
Bashing thoughts from my brain.

My hand hard pressed against my side,
As I find it harder with each stride.
Clutching the wound, my blood to gush,
Ounce after ounce is lost, ‘tis a fading will with which I rush

Now panting hard my breath is lost
And voice as well to the biting frost.
A frantic “help” cannot come out
As through my mouth my blood I spout.

My mind is racing to and fro,
For what had happened I do not know
A blur is left in my memory
Where a vile act was meant to be.

Tripping over taunting death,
For life in me: there is little left.
Was I meant to end like this?
Meant for death from first mother’s kiss.

A shout from behind, a woman aghast,
At the sight of my gore as I stumbled past.
I fell on my knees before my door
With but faint strength—very little more.

With what strength left I began to knock,
Over and over, with each pound a painfully sharp shock.
She came to the door with face so grim.
As collapsing in her arms, her tears filled to the brim.

My brothers came over, but intently I stared
Intending my last sight to be of her.
They began to dress my wounds,
and from the blood my mother swoons.

I bade them away and
Pressed my lips to hers
Then taking her hand in my hand,
My vision is consumed with blurs.

I saw her eyes no more,
Spilling there over the floor
And then rushed back the roaring dread
Soon I am to be dead.

Was I meant, from first mother’s kiss
To die sprawled on the floor like this?
To die fleeing as a criminal might
To the comfort of home for one final night.

Mouthing words, but with no voice
Desperately trying to make a noise
Barely mumbling, almost humming,
I spoke the words, “…They are coming.”

(now pray what may you think?)