Martyr #121 (Luke’s Poetry)

A man sits behind a bar,
strumming his fingers;
in order.

Thinking of the past,
strumming his fingers;
he orders.

One beer goes down,
he prays for his sins;
and orders.

Two beers now empty,
he stands up straight;
and thinks.

His money on the table,
his pains concealed;
he stumbles.

Into the darkness,
un-armed and alone;
he walks.

Judgement then comes,
a gun to his head
he screams.

Tied up and taken,
beaten not broken;
he dies.

His name was Omar.
The papers call him
number 121.

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