They tell them the stories.
Stories of warfare,
and loss,
and hope divided.
Stories of hunger,
and thirst,
and threats.
They tell them the truth,
but at a cost
of happiness.
At a cost of security.
Of sanity.
The stories aren’t what they
desire to hear.
They spark fear,
instigate sorrow,
tear apart love.
They are what’s right
and what’s wrong
and everything in between.
They tell them so they are aware.
Aware of their surroundings,
of the monsters
that lurk in the shadows.
But there’s not much to tell
when the monsters
share the stories

themselves.

There’s not much to tell
when every word from their spitting mouths
reeks of disaster,
chaos,
anarchy.
There’s not much to tell
besides a world falling apart
and a separation of the minds
that once held it together.