Bam bam bam! Gun shots in the distance. First thought, maybe I didn’t hear it well. Bam bam bam! Gun shots in the distance. Second thought, police in town; another gangstar dead. Bam bam bam! Last thought, just another day in the city.
They call it the concrete jungle. Yet step on the same streets where blood is shed. This city built on flesh, stone and metal. Gunshots are the base to the ochestra of hoots, coughs and heart beats. Music to the ears of the normal city dweller. Without music there is no normality. With normality comes cowardice to ask any more questions. We are safe in this war zone.
Somewhere a mother mourns the death of her son. To her it’s a case of mistaken identity. His only fault was the choice to don dreads and a hoodie. Striving to forge his identity, in a world where conformity is the order of the day. Misunderstood. In the eyes of his mother, the beloved is innocent. To the eyes of society he robs us. Robs us of the sound of music. Normality. So, bam bam bam! Give base to this ochestra. Just another life lost. Sacrifice in this war zone.
He has not killed today. Crime rate is on a high. Therefore, he is not competent. The day is about to end and he shall be face with failure according to his superiors. He walks by. Dreads and a hoodie. The perfect candidate. Give sound to the ochestra.
A philosopher begs the question. What is peace? The absence of war. There is always a battle. A conflict of ideals. Shall the pen ever be mightier than the sword?
He writes to the sound of gunshots in the distance. The notes jolted down to the sound of the ochestra.