Echoes from the Balcony of Despair.

—for all who died, struggled, and fought at the 

expense of being denied human rights.

This place was meant 

to torture us— 

chase after us like 

police do during peaceful protests

Dear God, please come down  

and be the police— the ones 

here are scraping us off. 

I watched the departure of Zenu K. Miller, 

grabbing the news— retired by the police, 

ruptured into a ghost by the whips of batons. 

Christopher Walter Sisulu on July 26, 

dragged about a mile,

by men with weapons, 

beaten for the utterance of freedom?

God, are you hearing me? 

Do you know the struggle of

watching a man forcefully stretch his rod 

into the river of a girl?

What is the pleasure of watching 

kids selling plastic bags in the center 

of Monrovia’s streets?

Crippled mean sitting with a bowl 

for the coins of life 

to fall inside. And that being 

a child substitutes you for prey.

God, did you read the headline in Frontpage Africa? 

“Who killed Princess? Lifeless Body of Young Woman Found in

Pool of Blood at ELWA Junction.”

Is the sky the safest place to hide our fears?

The radio is where all missing children are found.

God, please audit the 4 auditors on how they died— 

and don't share the

report before they attempt to kill you too

but first, show us how to be humans beyond just breathing.

and save, save, save, save, this place.

Azaiouris Y. Zeon writes from Liberia. His works have appeared/are forthcoming in The Poetry Journal, The Kalahari Review, The Shallow Tales Review, Africritik, Afritondo, EBOquills, ArtLounge, & elsewhere.