Dead Flesh

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..

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2 Comments on "Dead Flesh"

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Nadeem Qazilbash
Member

A sensitive portrayal of how repeated blows act like a pathetic anesthetic.

Viswas Menon
Member

well written

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