Jeffrey Feghaly ENGL 250 Poem 3 Feb 16, 2014 Buried Past My father recalls to me stories of his past, gripping his fists tightly as his face turns gray. Telling me: “Son it was a dark time for our country.” Anxiously I continue listening. As he spills his inner repressed memories, “15 years… 15 years of blood and hate” Buildings that once stood graciously in the sky, now punctured by the bullets that continuously dance in midair. Streets that were once filled with jubilant people, now only hosted lifeless cold corpses. Men grew distant from their families, forcing women to carry lethal arms to shield their broods. Their fingers embedded on the trigger, patiently lurking from street to street, in a scavenger’s hunt for vital necessities.