Pale Steam / Palestine

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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