Sweltering Ignorance
The winds outside my window sound like the voices of rioters on the verge of revolution.
Its slaps against the glass sound like the footsteps of a marching army.
Its bristles against the curtains sound like screams of many dying.
Is it a lull to sleep or a call to action?
Indecisive, I close the window, choosing instead to lay in the sweltering heat.
This poem is about:
My country
Our world