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Cobalt

The dystopia of today, Thank you dear provider.

By Kahlil RahmePublished 3 years ago 3 min read
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Cobalt mines, the Congo

I want you to close your eyes and hear it, feel it, smell it. War.

The ash softly singing the fine hairs of your arm, a playful bite like frosted snow on a naked arm.

The smell of dampness and smoke, acrid and full of pride.

Livid with the harmonious voice of a million, a chant in pitches low and high

Old and young,

Living and those that teeter on the edge of its borders.

Feel the rush of people around you, frantic and swirling like the tufts of grey cloud that circle above your head, or strike the flood walls on the docks beside you.

Welcome to war. Welcome to tears,

Welcome to today

And tomorrow.

And yesterday.

Welcome, dear friend, to the shop of dreams. The great burning forge of luxury. The bleeding locket heart of wealth.

Now open,

Look at the expanse of orange land,

peppered with dry shrubs and littered with starved soil. And the world as if painted by a child, is coated in a shaky and burnt horizon with swirls of a piercing graphite sky. As desolate as the land beneath it.

Turn to face the docks, and the lining of crude rigs.

Face the choppy seas that lick the docks threatening to swallow any man, woman, child whole. The light struggling to penetrate the rugged and smokey waters.

And now, for your final taste of paradise, gaze down at your feet and stare into the singing hole in which the voices rise.

Peer deep into the rabbit hole,

where dreams are made,

The abyss of advancement.

The war of progression.

Peer down and gaze upon the children, their feet bare with pride.

Coloured in crimson and purple, the rainbow of the trench.

Picking into the walls, searching for a mineral their lips fail to grasp and worn and weathered hands fail to spell.

And look at their faces,

teeth bare and pearly, a smile of struggled labour as they swing picks as heavy as the neighbour they rub shoulders with.

Welcome to war; against man and earth.

Ah, I see your eyes,

I see how they focus on one lone child,

I know her, aged maybe eight or nine.

You can see the gold heart locket that swings round her neck, don't you?

how it glints and glistens in the fire.

She kicks and screams when the others try and scramble for it. Such great might for the likes of a small girl.

I remember the night I saw first saw it, and all it held within.

The night I took her from her village. The night I saved her soul.

The sky burnt the same orange as the ground, and snowed heavily with the remains of her family.

I pulled her from it. A hero, I guess you could call me.

I remember peering into that very locket and starring back at me was everything that these children have to offer.

It held the capacity of everything that they could become,

and all the ripples in which they would leave behind.

I remember looking into that gold, gold locket

and saw nothing,

but the age of its metal.

Ha! You don't seem too impressed my friend.

Your mouth points to the ground beneath you and your eyebrows meet where they divide.

Don’t you see what I am giving them?

Are you not grateful for what I provide?

I give them meaning!

They, the tools of progression.

The makers of tomorrow.

I see you don't believe me. You think me a heretic, a liar!

No, No. No words need to be said.

Just do me one last thing, for your kind friends sake.

Reach into those deep, deep pockets.

And grasp onto that cold, black square.

Watch how the ashes lingerie against its glassy and lifeless form.

Gaze hard into the product of their hard work.

And as you think, peer down into that mine,

Stare into the eyes of the girl with the heart shaped locket.

You have her to thank.

Thank her for this acrid device your eyes skim across

as you read these foul and distasteful words. 

Now who are you to judge?

You, oh dear provider.

nature poetry
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About the Creator

Kahlil Rahme

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