Published March 20, 2015 by Shreya Rajvanshi

She locked her door
And hid under her soft
Quilt, which now seemed so hard,
Which was as white as snow,
But was now like a red wall,
She buried her face in
Her pillow to keep away the sounds
Of gunshots, of broken glasses,
Of pleadings,
Of blurred chances,
She covered her eyes
To block the images of
Shredded clothes, broken bottles
And now a torn home.
She stayed hidden under her quilt
To escape from the reality
That someone nameless,
Came in and buried her father
Deep under a hole,
He can’t crawl out of,
That someone faceless
Snapped her mother’s neck
Like she was a fragile doll.
And she didn’t come out
Of the quilt till she heard the
Sirens blazing,
Loudly and harshly
Outside her door.


16 comments on “Storm.

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