Sunflowers
Alarms going off surrounded the city hall building. Sky darkening to an ending shade of a saccharine staleness. Flaming wine trickles down the streets. An innocent-looking old lady behind a cart selling candies curls up her lips; reveals a rotten mouth. Businessmen and women politicians fill the town square; snakes are escaping from their lavish suits and short pencil skirts. Deceptions flowing out; lies stand concealed still. You can see the sun fading in the distance; civilians smirking maliciously. We all knew your secrets, mister president. Signs, pedestrians and animals glued into the sizzling asphalt after being stomped upon three hundred times too much.
Days later, the city hall is repainted white, again. Someone (was) made a red splotch on the wall. Someone else wonders if they will paint the whole town white to try to conceal the malfeasances. But the corruption is where paint can’t reach, deep in the creaks and pores of the town and in the people.
With white throats and white tongues they try anew. Sharp sounds of top-notch alarms ripping through the streets; it’s becoming the children’s favorite lullaby. Balaclavas and guns flashing. Acid air fills their bleached lungs and blurry eyes; the vision deteriorating. There’s also a darkening in my eyesight, they say to their ophthalmologist.
No one ever notices children planting sunflowers in the distance.
Days later, the city hall is repainted white, again. Someone (was) made a red splotch on the wall. Someone else wonders if they will paint the whole town white to try to conceal the malfeasances. But the corruption is where paint can’t reach, deep in the creaks and pores of the town and in the people.
With white throats and white tongues they try anew. Sharp sounds of top-notch alarms ripping through the streets; it’s becoming the children’s favorite lullaby. Balaclavas and guns flashing. Acid air fills their bleached lungs and blurry eyes; the vision deteriorating. There’s also a darkening in my eyesight, they say to their ophthalmologist.
No one ever notices children planting sunflowers in the distance.
ana m. finžgar is fifteen years old and from the mediterranean. she finds inspiration in snippets of conversations and little everyday things you don't think would lead to a poem.
