My inability to get hurt Like dead flesh It doesn’t hurt like a fresh rose When stomped Dead flesh sees future Of being hung After cut for steaks.. It doesn’t complain or Can it complain after being dead? Feathers ceded by birds in flight Are like me. They don’t get hurt For they are not butterflies squashed by Children in play..
“At least eighty dead,” is all you’ve said…. As that charred colossus, Grenfell, towers overhead. The hopes and fears of those you loved, Dead. Those missing, without mention, who died, without dying, who cried, without crying. The faceless, euphemised headlines
Down the drain, down the drain, follow the sand down the drain. His soul woven cloak awaits, scythe in hand, ferry leaving the docks. Crooked steps, cold and blackened breath, take me unto you. One leg in the grave, half
Ceremonial Rituals in Hindu Religion smacks the logic Daughters and Sons though born in the same womb are differentiated Son’s carry the paternal ancestral legacy while Daughters are abandoned midway to assume In laws legacy Sons may not look after