I sit sharpening my machete <br />With a faint ring of steel on steel <br />The blade has been worn down <br />With a passion of sharpness. <br /> <br />Wooden handle, black with sweat and old blood <br />Chipped but serviceable. <br />I try hard not to remember <br />The last time steel bit bone <br />The last time the machete and I killed. <br /> <br />Shrill screaming, accusations and decades <br />Of unforgiving hate <br />A lot of it made up by the last minister in power. <br />Yet, the effect being the same. <br />Your friend becomes your enemy. <br />Death being the answer. <br /> <br />I cannot sleep at night <br />The memories of my actions <br />And screams of terror, <br />Keep me up, sweating in panic and self loathing. <br />This nightmare is shared amongst my friends <br />All who killed for what they believed in. <br /> <br />I have blood on my hands <br />That I cannot wash off <br />And the rest of my life <br />To remember the hate, terror and murder <br />That I helped inflict that night.<br /><br />willow moon pearce<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/morning-in-rwanda/
