PTSD caged within our own bars and shadows,
our homes, our prisons.
While violence is contained in stone and steel,
evil roams the lands of our ancestors,
haunting the neighborhoods where we reside,
the grim reality we breathe.

Robberies, murders, gunshots,
a relentless echo through mind and house,
the terrifying drumbeat of political violence,
on streets where sirens scream,
marking failed attempts at law.

Crimes of opportunity,
gangs running wild, rape and torture,
dosage of violence delivered daily.
beats rhythms of despair;
it’s just another day,
another citizen victimized,
another farmer slain,
the genocide of an entire family tree,
a bloodline, no more.

In survivors,
the decimation of peace of mind.
A brutal silence falls as PTSD shape.
Savage brutality witnessed:
family members terrorized,
children and partners raped and tortured.

Nightmares rise
from ashes of helplessness,
as jokes are shared at BBQ’s and comedy shots,
survivors using humor to make sense of madness,
an insanity to curb the pain of trauma,
but, in silent corners of the mind, anger swells,
and animosity roots in guilt
where family protection failed.

Security Neighborhood Watches,
cameras, alarms
futile against the rising tide.
Anger spills into streets
where songs of political violence
fill the South African skies.

A chilling call to murder,
thundering through stadiums,
from podiums where minor political groups
work to ignite fires of malignancy.

The children of Afrikaners stare,
wide-eyed and confused,
whispering questions to their parents:
“Is ons boer? Hoekom wil hulle ons doodmaak?”

Weapons of self-defense fill the house,
someday a shot will rise
against another riot,
another invasive force on home.

A single shot in self-defense
mobilizes the death of a minority,
just or not, an excuse for the masses
to spill rivers of crimson on this land.
The sparks of malignancy
fuel into storms of carnage.
Fear and anger surge.

A country decimated by bloodshed,
rising against condemnation
as minorities protect,
where the masses attack.

Political hands wash their innocence
in carnage overflowing the streets.
It’s time to move on to assets
stored across borders, outside our land,
as the people die,
no more to loot
but run from the handiwork expelled
someday, it will find them.

Copyright © Anthony Gillespie