niHna
gapped teeth yellowed by the river's residue
calloused hands imprinted with memories on how to still be tender
foreheads with skin creased like ancient silk..bedding the sun's rays until it cums sweet sweat
eyes, watchful by cruel necessity but secretly wishing to ease up and soften
feet that are yet to stand long enough to rejoin the detached roots in their wombs
a dream, floating like lints in a shaft of light
and a heart that yearns to settle..for good...on the surface of it's own land.
this is us.
and they call it...
and they call it..
they tax smiles
until they become broke frawns
they regulate life
until it becomes existence
they embezzle all sources of inspiration
until they become shallow, useless ponds
and then, oddly, they call it progress
Post Tags:
Abesha.Com:
