Poem has to live at all costs
Poet has to die daily —
to die with the scabs of the day
having seen torment and death
with the blind back of my palms
clenched on the face,
a high and dry dam
stopping tears of a fleeting empathy,
in consideration:
They blow up people
dragging their knuckles
waving flags, shouting at slogans.
Right to defense,
right to exist in self righteous exegesis.
Pale steam:
Women and children,
bits of men
scattered across the desert
red sea of rubble.
Since, I can’t stop this madness
am I just as insane?
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