A/N: I realize that each Shepard is different for every person who plays Mass Effect. This is a perceptive/perception poem for my particular Shepard. The colonist origin always struck me as one that had a good story to it. The previous doesn't mean I won't be exploring the other origin possibilities within poetry; it's just that this one is on my mind at this point in time.
In progress not because the poems themselves are incomplete, but because I will be adding other poems as they come.
Because this is a triple A game. I feel obligated to put a disclaimer in: I do not own nor profit by anything connected with Mass Effect, BioWare, or EA. This poem has not been written with the intent of making a profit and is free for all to peruse and enjoy.
There, dislaimer over, no more for this particular "story" as calls it.
"Mindoir"
I sat in a corner.
Others decided "what to do"
There was no one to comfort me
as I walked past smoke stained husks
and saw blood glisten in the grass.
When it was "fixed up,"
I still saw the blood congeal in pools
and rubbed my arms to make sure I was clean.
The smoke was still there;
breathing came laboured.
My eyes smarted; I rubbed them with hands
still thick with ash.
I left as new faces
took the homes of the already forgotten.
Others decided "what to do."