Monday, 25 February 2019

given dried peace

i was given an opportunity
to fail in my dreams ; so i did.
i whispered hate and manifested
dead skin only me and mine could
touch. flavours of the atlas dripped
into my mouth and down my
regrets ; because when i wake
i want to move without its loud
climate change.
taller than me and
not ready for me, my dreams
were dying inside
to fall free.
 
 

this will be my last poem

so that i remember. because before melted steel, there was hand-made, better, buttered words. we can decide if new spaces beneath me can qui...